. 


POEMS 


GRAVE  AND    GAY 


BY 


GEORGE    ARNOLD 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS. 
1867. 


\ 


ft 
Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

TICK  NOR    AND    FIELDS, 
the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  EIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE    7 

I.     GRAVE. 

A  SUMMER  LONGING 23 

FIRE-FLIES 25 

A  SUNSET  FANTASIE 27 

ART  AND  NATURE 30 

PSYCHE'S  FEET 38 

MY  WIND-HARP 39 

SEA-SHORE  FANCIES 40 

THE  OMEN 42 

SEPTEMBER  DAYS 44 

GOLDEN-ROD 46 

THE  LILY  OF  THE  NILE 48 

OCTOBER 49 

SUMMER  AND  AUTUMN 52 

THE  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  TIME 54 


M191830 


iv  Contents. 

THE  POET'S  AWAKENING 57 

JACOB'S  LADDER 58 

DEEP  EYES 60 

JAM  SATIS 61 

MIDNIGHT  Music 62 

,WINE  SONG 64 

LUCIDORA 66 

ON  THE  BEACH 68 

LAUREL 70 

ALONE  BY  THE  SHORE 71 

I  WANT  NOT  LOVE 73 

IN  THE  ORGAN-LOFT 74 

THE  BROKEN  CAVALIER'S  SONG 76 

IN  THE  ALCOVE 78 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 79 

AT  THE  CIRCUS 80 

DRINKING  WINE 83 

SONG  OF  THE  SENSUOUS 85 

QUAND  MEME 87 

VANITAS 95 

TIRED 97 

AT  NEWPORT 99 

GLORIA 104 

CAMP  COGITATIONS  .  106 


Contents.  v 

JUNE  24,  1859 .       .       .112 

JUNE  24,  1864 114 

II.    GAY. 

DON  LEON'S  BRIDE 117 

THE  BIG  OYSTER 127 

THE  DRINKING  OF  THE  APPLE-JACK         ....  133 

SINGLE  AND  DOUBLE 138 

THE  BALLAD  OF  FISTIANA 145 

THE  MODERN  MITHRIDATES 150 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  FLORA 153 

THE  CORONER'S  JURYMAN 158 

THE  DANGERS  OF  BROADWAY 161 

THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  TOWN 164 

THE  BROWN  STONE  WHAT-IS-IT 167 

THE  SHARPSHOOTER'S  LOVE I7l 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  STONE-HULK 173 

THE  NEW  NIMROD •  J75 

Two  SENSIBLE  SERENADES r78 

"No  MORE" lSl 

OPENING  DAY l%4 

THE  COMMON  COUNCILMAN 186 

DOUGLAS'S  SERENADE 189 

THE  CONSERVATIVE'S  LAMENT 191 


vi  Contents. 

QUEER  WEATHER 195 

FACILIS  DECENSUS  AVENUE 197 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  HOME  GUARD 201 

A  VOICE  FROM  ON  DECK 204 

THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  POSTAGE-STAMP        ....  206 

THE  WAR-POET'S  LAMENT 208 

SHODDY 211 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTE. 


T  N  the  biographical  sketch  of  George  Arnold 
-*•  that  is  prefixed  to  "Drift"  I  have  recorded 
the  principal  events  of  his  life,  and  have  de 
scribed  his  character  as  it  was  known  to  me. 
In  that  volume,  also,  I  have  presented  many 
poems  which  illustrate  the  nobleness,  the  gen 
tle  simplicity,  the  tender  human  sentiment,  the 
winning  quaintness,  and  the  half-cheerful,  half-sad 
repose,  that  were  blended  in  his  character,  and 
that  made  him  so  delightful  and  so  dear  to 
his  numerous  friends.  While  interpreting  his 
nature,  those  poems  likewise  prove  his  genius. 
That  genius,  however,  was  manifested  in  vari 
ous  aspects,  by  other  works ;  and  these  —  in 
pursuance  of  the  solemn  duty  that  has  been 


8  Introductory  Note. 

intrusted  to  my  hands  by  the  relatives  of  the 
departed  poet  —  I  am  to  place  before  the  pub 
lic.  The  present  volume  comprises  a  number 
of  his  poems  that  have  been  gathered  since  the 
compilation  of  "  Drift,"  together  with  a  portion 
of  his  humorous  and  satirical  verse.  There  re 
main  to  be  reproduced  his  humorous  Prose 
Writings,  his  Tales  and  Sketches,  and  those 
pieces  of  his  comic  verse  for  which  he  made 
drawings,  and  which  would  lose  much  of  their 
significance  if  printed  apart  from  the  illustra 
tions.  Meanwhile,  upon  this  volume  and  its 
predecessor  rests  George  Arnold's  title  to  an 
honorable  fame  among  the  poets  of  America. 

That  such  a  fame  awaits  him  I  cannot  doubt. 
To  contemplate  these  poems  with  the  eyes  of 
affection  is,  perhaps,  to  see  in  them  a  deeper 
meaning  and  a  higher  value  than  they  possess. 
Yet  affection,  though  it  be  not  critical,  is  clear 
sighted.  In  this  instance,  anticipating  the  verdict 
of  the  impartial  future,  I  believe  that  Arnold 
will  be  recognized  as  truly  a  poet,  —  as  one, 


Introductory  Note.  9 

that  is,  who  knew  and  worshipped  and  could 
interpret  the  beautiful ;  who  understood,  by  po 
etic  intuition,  the  heart  of  man  and  the  sanc 
tity  of  Nature  ;  who  felt,  therefore,  the  deep, 
latent  tragedy  of  human  life,  and  heard  the 
voice  of  God  in  rustling  leaf  and  babbling 
brook  and  murmuring  surges  of  ocean ;  who 
widely  sympathized  with  the  aspirations  of  hu 
manity,  desiring  that  happiness  might  prevail 
as  the  fruit  of  justice ;  who  uttered,  in  many 
admirable  forms  of  art,  the  truth  which  he  saw 
and  felt,  and  the  ideal  for  which  he  longed ; 
and  who  preserved,  through  care  and  sin  and 
sorrow,  a  simple  nature,  a  true  heart,  and  per 
fect  faith  in  goodness  and  beauty.  This  is  the 
testimony  of  his  poems.  They  do  not,  indeed, 
strikingly  evince  that  greatest  of  poetic  faculties, 
imagination.  They  do  not  even  evince  a  fixed 
and  controlling  intellectual  purpose.  Yet  they 
reveal,  with  graphic  clearness,  one  of  those  finely 
organized  natures,  —  seldom  sent  on  earth,  but 
always  sent  to  bless,  —  in  which  the  fire  that 


io  Introductory  Note. 

burns  with  such  strange,  erratic  lustre  is  the  di 
vine  fire  of  genius. 

It  is  generally  futile  to  conjecture  what  a  man 
would  have  been,  and  what  he  would  have  done, 
under  other  circumstances  than  those  which  ac 
tually  surrounded  him.  Yet  I  cannot  but  think 
—  remembering  how  much  greater  Arnold  was 
than  the  writings  which  he  has  left  —  that,  un 
der  happier  conditions,  he  would  have  wrought 
to  better  purpose  and  would  have  enriched  the 
literature  of  his  country  with  riper  and  more 
massive  works.  The  critic  will  detect  in  his 
poetry  the  elements  of  fever,  recklessness,  and 
melancholy  :  but  it  is  easy  to  explain  their  pres 
ence.  He  lived,  ripened,  and  died  within  the 
brief  period  of  thirty-one  years.  His  lot  was 
cast  amidst  a  civilization  the  enormous  physical 
activity  of  which  precludes  repose,  and  is  thus 
an  enemy  to  genius  and  to  art.  Moreover,  the 
best  years  of  his  life  —  which  were  the  last  — 
were  those  wild  years  of  civil  war  that  forbade 
poetic  meditation.  Then,  too,  his  personal  ex- 


Introductory  Note.  1 1 

perience  had  warped  him  from  happiness.  He 
began  life  with  exultant  enthusiasm.  He  believed 
in  everything,  —  in  love,  in  hope,  in  ambition, 
in  pleasure,  in  the  rewards  of  the  world  and  in 
the  promises  of  fame.  Passion  came  to  him,  and 
sorrow  in  its  train ;  but,  to  his  deep  nature,  a 
common  grief  broadened  into  a  profound  trag 
edy.  Too  brilliant  to  brood,  he  plunged  into 
pleasure.  Then  came  a  mood  of  philosophical 
apathy,  in  which  he  tired  of  love  and  sorrow  and 
the  whole  strange  pageant  of  human  life.  Four 
lines  in  this  book,  entitled  "An  Autobiography," 
suggest  this  mood  in  a  very  forcible  manner. 
Among  the  last  words  that  he  wrote,  also,  are 
these,  which  I  copy  from  the  manuscript  of  his 
last  McArone  letter :  "  To  sit  in  the  chimney- 
corner  and  smoke  a  pipe,  looking  tranquilly 
backward  upon  all  the  troubles  and  trials  and 
tribulations,  the  losses,  the  disappointments,  the 
doubtings  and  fearings  that  make  up  the  bitter 
ness  of  life,  —  to  look  back  upon  these  as  things 
of  the  past,  matters  of  history,  already  uninterest- 


12  Introductory  Note. 

ing  to  the  present  generation,  is  a  boon  I  do 
mightily  desire."  In  the  sad  sincerity  of  these 
words  his  temperament  is  clearly  revealed,  —  a 
temperament  that  could  not,  and  did  not,  favor 
elaborate  efforts  in  literary  art.  He  wrote  con 
tinually,  however,  and  without  artifice  ;  and,  de 
spite  this  inward  apathy,  he  never  lost  the  poet's 
devotion  to  Nature,  nor  the  gentleman's  humane 
sensibility,  nor  the  practical  thinker's  capacity 
to  cope  with  the  affairs  ol  every-day  life.  His 
sadness  was  for  himself;  his  cheerfulness  was 
for  others.  Those  who  met  George  Arnold  saw 
a  handsome,  merry  creature,  whose  blue  eyes 
sparkled  with  mirth,  whose  voice  was  cheerful, 
whose  manners  were  buoyant  and  winning, 
whose  courtesy  was  free  and  gay.  He  had  a 
smile  and  a  kind  word  for  every  good  fellow. 
He  saw  the  best  side  of  persons  and  of  things. 
His  large  humanity  was  quick  to  find  excuses 
for  the  errors  and  the  faults  of  his  comrades. 
He  could  throw  himself  with  hearty  zest  into 
the  pleasures  of  the  passing  hour;  and  thus, 


Introductory  Note.  13 

wherever  he  went,  he  attracted  friends.  Among 
men  of  letters  his  presence  was  sunshine.  None 
could  take  keener  delight  than  he  did  in 

"  Genial  table-talk, 
Or  deep  dispute  and  graceful  jest." 

He  mingled  with  many  classes  of  persons,  and 
he  was  a  favorite  with  them  all.  Upon  the  minds 
of  conventional  people,  indeed,  I  dare  say  that 
he  often  left  an  erroneous  impression  ;  for  he  had 
a  lively  impatience  of  the  commonplace  in  life  and 
letters,  and  he  was  remarkably  proficient  in  the 
art  of  "  chaffing."  It  is  not  to  be  denied,  either, 
that  the  moral  discipline  of  his  life  was  imperfect. 
He  often  yielded  to  sensuous  impulse.  .  Yet  the 
basis  of  his  nature  was  goodness,  and  the  current 
of  his  life  sparkled  with  graces  as  it  flowed  onward 
from  light  to  darkness. 

Many  pictures  of  him  rise  before  me,  as  I  think 
of  pleasant  hours  passed  in  his  society,  in  years 
that  are  forever  gone,  —  of  long  rambles  by  day, 
and  sad  or  merry  talk  by  night,  over  pipe  and  bot 
tle,  in  quiet  lodgings  wherein  we  dwelt  together. 


14  Introductory  Note. 

His  affectionate  sympathy,  his  quaint  cynicism,  his 
wit,  and  his  humorous  philosophy  were,  at  such 
times,  inexpressibly  winning.  He  had  read  many 
books,  —  his  favorite  authors  being  Balzac  and 
Byron,  —  but  he  had  studied  Man  and  Nature 
with  deeper  relish;  and  hence  his  conversation 
was  vital  and  various  with  the  fruits  of  observa 
tion  rather  than  reading.  But  no  personal  rem 
iniscence,  no  tender,  regretful  word,  can  now 
reanimate  his  silent  face  or  rekindle  his  "spell 
o'er  hearts."  In  the  love  of  his  friends  he  can 
live  but  for  them  alone.  For  others  he  must 
live  in  his  works,  if  he  live  at  all. 

"  Thy  leaf  has  perished  in  the  green  : 

And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world,  which  credits  what  is  done, 
Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been." 

What,  then,  is  done  ?  .  .  .  The  question  is 
partly  answered  in  these  two  volumes  of  poems. 
A  few  words  relative  to  the  details  of  Arnold's 
literary  career  may  chance  to  answer  it  still  fur 
ther. 


Introductory  Note.  15 

He  was  a  writer  from  the  first.  While  yet  a 
boy  he  used  to  amuse  himself  by  making  little 
newspapers,  writing  the  articles  and  printing  them 
with  his  pen.  Several  years  later  he  began  to 
keep  a  poetical  Diary,  in  that  delicious  Italian 
stanza  which  doubtless  Byron's  "  Don  Juan  "  had 
commended  to  his  fancy.  This  Diary  he  kept  for 
a  long  time,  so  that  it  filled  a  large  volume ;  but, 
ultimately,  and  no  doubt  wisely,  he  destroyed  it. 
In  letters  to  his  friends,  also, — which  he  used 
to  ornament  with  illustrative  drawings,  —  his  liter 
ary  faculty  found  practice.  How  he  drifted  from 
Painting  to  Literature,  in  or  about  the  year  1853, 
has  already  been  noted.  There  were  fewer  peri 
odicals  published  in  New  York  then  than  there  are 
now,  and  hence  fewer  opportunities  were  afforded 
to  writers.  Yet  he  was  soon  actively  employed 
as  the  sub-editor  of  a  story-paper ;  and  he  was 
remarkably  efficient  and  successful  in  this  office. 
His  taste,  however,  soon  impelled  him  to  decline 
editorial  cares ;  and  from  this  time  forward  he  sel 
dom  accepted  duties  that  could  restrict  his  per- 


1 6  Introductory  Note. 

sonal  freedom.  He  could  work  in  the  most  orderly 
manner,  and  with  unflagging  industry  ;  but  he 
preferred  to  work  whenever  and  wherever  impulse 
directed  him.  In  pursuing  this  policy  he  became 
a  contributor  to  many  publications.  His  writings, 
as  far  as  collected,  have  been  drawn  from  twenty- 
seven  periodicals.  He  preserved  printed  copies 
of  a  part  of  them,  but  in  general  was  careless  of 
their  fate.  The  collection  of  his  stories  numbers 
one  hundred  and  ninety-four,  and  is  still  incom 
plete.  To  trace  all  his  essays,  sketches,  art- 
critiques,  book-reviews,  jokes,  and  paragraphs 
would  be  impossible,  they  are  so  numerous  and 
so  widely  scattered.  It  is  enough  to  say,  that 
many  a  brilliant  article  that  has  anonymously 
gone  the  rounds  of  the  press  within  the  last  ten 
years,  delighting  hundreds  of  readers,  came  from 
his  pen,  —  carelessly  sold,  to  supply  the  need  of 
the  moment,  and  then  forgotten.  In  the  promi 
nent  magazines  of  the  country  he  is  represented 
by  only  a  few  poems  and  stories.  He  was  not 
fastidious  in  the  sale  of  his  writings.  The  nearest 


Introductory  Note.  17 

purchaser  satisfied  him.  A  trifling  incident  will 
illustrate  his  carelessness  in  this  particular.  In 
1 86 1,  when  the  outbreak  of  the  civil  war  had 
caused  a  sudden  stagnation  in  letters,  he  one  day 
showed  me  a  short  poem  that  he  had  just  written, 
and  laughingly  said  that  he  should  like  to  sell  it. 
I  thereupon  offered  to  sell  it  for  him.  He  told  me 
to  take  it,  and  to  accept  the  first  offer  that  might 
be  made  for  it.  I  sold  the  poem  to  a  political 
newspaper  for  three  dollars.  He  was  delighted 
at  this  magnificent  result,  and  immediately  spent 
the  money  for  a  dinner,  which  we  ate  together, 
with  great  glee.  He  often  gave  his  poems  to 
editors  who  were  his  personal  friends.  He  was 
not,  however,  a  voluminous  writer  of  serious  verse. 
His  comic  poems  are  very  numerous.  At  an  early 
period  of  his  literary  career  he  began  to  write  for 
the  comic  papers  ;  and  he  continued  to  work  in 
that  vein  till  the  end.  Vanity  Fair,  which  was 
started  in  New  York  in  the  autumn  of  1859,  by 
Mr.  W.  A.  Stephens,  gave  him  constant  employ 
ment.  This  paper  was  discontinued  in  the  sum- 


1 8  Introductory  Note. 

mer  of  1863,  and  its  record  of  contributors  and 
contributions  has  since  been  partly  destroyed  ; 
so  that  a  complete  list  of  the  articles  that  Arnold 
wrote  for  it  cannot  be  obtained.  But  it  is  certain 
that  he  contributed  several  hundred  articles,  in 
prose  and  verse,  many  of  which  he  illustrated  with 
pen-and-ink  sketches.  For  Mrs.  Gnindy — com 
menced  in  New  York  by  Mr.  A.  L.  Carrol,  in 
July,  1865,  and  discontinued  after  the  publication 
of  twelve  numbers  —  he  wrote  twenty-nine  arti 
cles,  and  supplied  many  clever  drawings.  His 
best  known  efforts  in  comic  writing  are  his 
Me  A  rone  Letters,  commenced  in  Vanity  Fair, 
November  24,  1860,  and  concluded  in  the  New 
York  Weekly  Review,  October  14,  1865.  These 
letters  include  a  comic  novel,  in  ten  chapters, 
He  employed,  also,  among  others,  the  pen-names 
of  *'Grahame  Allen,"  "George  Garrulous,"  "Pier 
rot,"  and  "  The  Undersigned." 

Other  details  might  be  given,  but  the  record 
of  his  literary  life  is  sufficiently  complete.  It  was 
industrious  ;  it  was  successful  ;  it  was  brilliant : 


Introductory  Note.  19 

future  criticism  must  finally  determine  the  value 
of  its  achievements. 

The  humorous  and  satirical  poems  contained  in 
this  volume  are  mainly  those  which  seem  to  me  to 
possess  a  general  rather  than  a  merely  local  and 
ephemeral  interest.  Arnold  wrote  many  clever 
verses  in  satire  of  passing  events  ;  but,  now  that 
the  events  have  passed  and  been  forgotten,  the 
verses  would  appear  to  be  pointless,  if  reproduced. 

The  present  collection  of  serious  poems  in 
cludes,  as  already  intimated,  several  which  I  was 
not  able  to  obtain,  prior  to  the  publication  of 
"  Drift,"  as  also  several  which,  at  first,  I  hesitated 
to  print.  It  is  easy  to  publish  ;  it  is  hard  to 
recall. 

The  task  which  I  have  thus  far  fulfilled  has 
been  a  sad  one,  —  since  it  has  caused  my  thoughts 
to  dwell  intensely  upon  persons  and  scenes  that 
have  passed  forever  away.  Six  years  ago  there 
was  a  brilliant  circle  of  young  writers  in  New 
York,  of  which  George  Arnold  was  a  dearly  loved 
member.  They  were  all  my  friends.  A  few  of 


2O  Introductory  Note. 

them  are  yet  alive  ;  but  the  others  have  fallen 
asleep.  Fitz-James  O'Brien,  Edward  Wilkins, 
William  Symonds,  Henry  Neill,  Frank  Wood, 
George  Arnold,  —  the  grass  is  growing  upon  all 
their  graves. 

"  Like  clouds  that  sweep  the  mountain  summit, 

Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
So  fast  has  brother  followed  brother 
From  sunlight  to  the  sunless  land." 

I  lay  aside  this  pen  with  a  sentiment  of  lone 
liness,  —  trusting,  though,  that,  in  an  humble 
effort  to  do  justice  to  one  of  these  departed 
friends,  it  has  not  labored  altogether  in  vain. 

WILLIAM    WINTER. 

NEW  YORK,  August  25,  1866. 


I. 

GRAVE. 


;  'T  is  also  well  this  air  is  stirred 

I?y  Nature's  voices  loud  and  low, 
By  thunder  and  the  chirping  bird, 
And  grasses  whispering  as  they  grow." 

MlLNES. 


A    SUMMER    LONGING. 

I  MUST  away  to  wooded  hills  and  vales, 
Where   broad,    slow   streams  flow    cool  and 

silently, 

And  idle  barges  flap  their  listless  sails.  .  .  . 
For  me  the  summer  sunset  glows  and  pales, 
And  green  fields  wait  for  me. 

I  long  for  shadowy  forests,  where  the  birds 

Twitter  and  chirp  at  noon  from  every  tree. 
I -long  for  blossomed  leaves  and  lowing  herds: 
And  Nature's  voices  say,  in  mystic  words, 
'The  green  fields  wait  for  thee.' 

I  dream  of  uplands,  where  the  primrose  shines, 
And  waves  her  yellow  lamps  above  the  lea; 
Of  tangled  copses,  swung  with  trailing  vines  ; 
Of  open  vistas,  skirted  with  tall  pines, 
Where  green  fields  wait  for  me. 


24  A   Summer  Longing. 

I  think  of  long,  sweet  afternoons,  when  I 

May  lie  and  listen  to  the  distant  sea, 
Or  hear  the  breezes  in  the  reeds  that  sigh, 
Or  insect-voices  chirping  shrill  and  dry, 
In  fields  that  wait  for  me. 

These  dreams  .of  summer  come  to  bid  me  find 

The  forest's  shade,  the  wild  bird's  melody, 
While  summer's  rosy  wreaths  for  me  are  twined, 
While  summer's  fragrance  lingers  on  the  wind, 
And  green  fields  wait  for  me. 


FIRE-FLIES. 

r  I  ^  IS  June,  and  all  the  lowland  swamps 
-*-     Are  rich  with  tufted  reeds  and  ferns, 
And  filmy  with  the  vaporous  damps 

That  rise  when  twilight's  crimson  burns ; 
And  as  the  deepening  dusk  of  night 
Steals  purpling  up  from  vale  to  height, 
The  wanton  fire-flies  show  their  fitful  light. 

Soft  gleams  on  clover-beams  they  fling, 

And  glimmer  in  each  shadowy  dell, 
Or  downward  with  a  sudden  swing 

Fall,  as  of  old  a  Pleiad  fell ; 
And  on  the  fields  bright  gems  they  strew 
And  up  and  down  the  meadow  go, 
And  through  the  forest  wander  to  and  fro. 

They  store  no  hive  nor  earthy  cell, 
They  sip  no  honey  from  the  rose  ; 


26  Fire-Flies. 

By  day  unseen,  unknown  they  dwell, 

Nor  aught  of  their  rare  gift  disclose  ; 
Yet,  when  the  night  upon  the  swamps, 
Calls  out  the  murk  and  misty  damps, 
They  pierce  the  shadows  with  their  shining  lamps. 

Now  ye,  who  in  life's  garish  light, 

Unseen,  unknown,  walk  to  and  fro, 
When  death  shall  bring  a  dreamless  night, 

May  ye  not  find  your  lamps  aglow  ? 
God  works,  we  know  not  why  nor  how, 
And,  one  day,  lights,  close  hidden  now, 
May  blaze  like  gems  upon  an  angel's  brow. 


A    SUNSET    FANTASIE. 

WHEN  the  sun  sets  over  the  bay, 
And  sweeping  shadows  solemnly  lie 
On  its  mottled  surface  of  azure  and  gray, 

And  the  night-winds  sigh, — 
Come,  O  Leonore,  brown-eyed  one, 
To  the  cloudy  realms  of  the  setting  sun ! 
Where  crimson  crag,  and  silvery  steep, 
And  amaranth  rift,  and  purple  deep, 
Look  dimly  soft,  as  the  sunset  pales, 
Like  the  shadowy  cities  of  ancient  tales. 

As  Egypt's  queen  went  floating  along 

To  her  lover,  when  all  the  orient  air 
Was  laden  with  echoes  of  dreamy  song, 
And  the  plash  of  oars,  and  perfumes  rare, 
So  will  we  float, 
In  a  golden  boat, 


28  A  Sunset  Fantasie. 

On  velvet  cushions  soft  and  wide  ; 

I  and  my  love,  the  onyx-eyed, 
Will  watch  the  twilight  radiance  fail,  — 

Cheek  by  cheek  and  side  by  side,  — 
And  our  mingled  breath,  O  Leonore, 
Shall  fan  the  silken  sail, 

To  the  shining  line  of  that  faery  strand 

Where  sky  is  water  and  cloud  is  land, — 
The  wonderful  sunset  shore ! 

On  those  dim  headlands,  here  and  there, 
The  lofty  glacier-peaks  between, 

Through  the  purple  haze  of  the  twilight  air, 
The  tremulous  glow  of  a  star  is  seen. 

There  let  us  dwell,  O  Leonore, 

Free  from  the  griefs  that  haunt  us  here, 
Knowing  nor  frown,  nor  sigh,  nor  tear : 

There  let  us  bide  forevermore, 

Happy  for  aye  in  the  sunset  sphere ! 

In  the  mountainous  cloudland,  far  away, 
Behold,  a  glittering  chasm  gleams ! 


A  Sunset  Fantasie.  29 

O,  let  us  cross  the  heaving  bay, 
To  that  land  of  love  and  dreams ! 

There  would  I  lie,  in  a  misty  bower, 
Tasting  the  nectar  of  thy  lip, 
Sweet  as  the  honeyed  dews  that  drip 

From  the  budding  lotos-flower ! 
Dip  the  oar  and  spread  the  sail 
For  shining  peak  and  shadowy  vale ! 

Fill,  O  sail,  and  plash,  O  oar, 

For  the  wonderful  sunset  shore ! 


ART    AND    NATURE. 

i. 

T  N  the  dusk  of  summer  even,  when  the  roses 
slowly  swayed 

To  and  fro,  in  gentle  breezes  that  around  the 
trellis  played, 

And  the  rising  moon  wrought  wonders  of  fan 
tastic  light  and  shade, 

I  walked  up  and  down  with  Florence,  under 
neath  the  linden-trees, 

Listening  to  the  ocean  murmurs,  rising,  falling, 
with  the  breeze  .  .  . 

Murmurs  faint  but  fraught  with  music,  hints  of 
dreams  and  prophecies. 

ii. 

Far  below  us,  where  the  beetling  cliff  its  dizzy 
depth  sheered  down, 


Art  and  Nature.  31 

We   could   hear   the   song  and  laughter    of    the 

merry-making  town,  — 
That    the    murmurs    of  the   ocean   and   the  wind 

were  vain  to  drown  ; 
And    above  the    rocks    there   flaunted,    now  and 

then,  a  lurid  light, 
As  the  harshly  hissing  rocket  climbed  along  its 

fiery  height, 
Piercing,     with    its    savage    splendor,     the    soft 

beauty  of  the  night. 

in. 

Noise  of  drums  and  trumpets  mingled  with  the 
cadence  of  the  seas  ; 

Bursts  of  wine-begotten  laughter  soiled  the  fresh 
ness  of  the  breeze  ; 

And  the  heavy  tramp  of  soldiers  shook  the  lofty 
linden-trees. 

There,  upon  a  rustic  sofa,  where  the  moonlight 
whitely  slept, 

And  a  rustic  roof  gave  shelter  from  the  dew 
that  heaven  wept, 


32  Art  and  Nature. 

We  sat  down  to  break  the  silence  that  till  then 
we  both  had  kept. 

IV. 

Florence  said :     "  How  grates  this  feasting,   this 

wild  noise  of  blatant  mirth, 
On   the   holy   peace  that   hovers  o'er  the  ocean 

and  the  earth ! 
Why    should    man's    best    sense    of  pleasure    to 

such  sights  and  sounds  give  birth  ? 
Why   not  seek  a  calm   expression  for  fulfilment 

of  desire  ? 
Must  our  triumphs  and  successes  all  be  writ   in 

words  of  fire, — 
Words   that  leave   but   bitter   ashes   when   their 

fitful  sparks  expire  ? 

v. 
"  Thus  it  is  with  men  .  .  .  they  trample  on  the 

dignity  of  man  .  .  . 
With  our  purest  joys  have  mingled,  ever  since 

the  world  began, 


Art  and  Nature.  33 

Brazen  blasts,  and  blazing  rockets,  and  the  deaf 
ening  rataplan ! 

Yet  the  moon  in  silent  grandeur  rises  from  the 
flashing  sea, 

And  the  stars  burn  on  forever,  and  the  winds 
blow  ever  free, 

Calm,  yet  joyous,  with  an  inner  sense  of  holy 
ecstasy." 

VI. 

"  Yes,"    I    said,    "  't  is    in    our    nature ;    we    are 

somehow  coarsely  made  ; 
And   we   think   that   our   emotions,    to   be   real, 

must  be  displayed  ; 
That    our    feelings    must    be   measured   by   our 

folly  and  parade. 
Yet,   perhaps,   we   err   not   greatly ;   man   needs 

symbols,  and  we  find 
In  this  fire  and  smoke  and  clamor  that   seethe 

upward  on  the  wind 
Some  external  type  of  triumph  gained  by  sword 

or  gained  by  mind. 


34  Art  and  Nature. 

VII. 

"Thus,  the  deepest-thinking  student,  when  his 
daily  task  is  done 

And  his  cloister  is  illumined  by  the  last  rays 
of  the  sun, 

Lays  his  ponderous  ancient  volumes  in  their 
alcove,  one  by  one, 

And  goes  forth  to  seek  companions  in  the  cellar 
or  the  hall, 

Where  the  clinking  of  the  goblets,  and  the  dan 
cing-leader's  call, 

And  the  hum  of  pleasant  music  on  his  weary 
ear  may  fall." 


VIII. 

Florence  took  the  word  up  quickly  :  "Ay,  your 
parallel  is  true  ; 

And  that  all  you  men  thus  trifle  is  the  greater 
shame  for  you ! 

Are  no  deities  more  worthy  than  the  mad  Bac 
chante  crew  ? 


Art  and  Nature.  35 

O  you  men !  the  wise  and  simple  to  the  self 
same  tenets  cling ; 

To  the  search  for  sensuous  pleasures  you  your 
highest  talents  bring, 

And  your  peals  of  shallow  laughter  through  the 
holiest  chambers  ring! 


IX. 

You  .  .  .  confess  it,  now !  .  .  are  longing  to  be 
yonder,  down  below, 

Where  through  thick,  black  clouds  of  smoke  de 
moniac  bonfires  redly  glow, 

Like  the  old,  fiend-lighted  beacons  on  the  Brocken 
long  ago ! 

You  too  love  the  brazen  clamor,  rattling  drum, 
and  trumpet's  strain, 

And  the  gaudy  rocket  cutting  this  fair,  moonlit 
sky  in  twain, 

More  than  grand  old  ocean's  music  and  the 
calm  of  Hesper's  reign ! " 


36  Art  and  Nature. 

x. 

"No,"  I  said,  "you  judge  us  harshly;  wine  and 
laughter  are  not  ends, 

They  are  means  to  that  enjoyment  whereto 
every  spirit  tends; 

And  't  is  wise  that  man  his  labor  with  his  pleas 
ure  sometimes  blends. 

Would  you  have  us  all  ascetics,  scorning  what 
our  natures  crave, 

Toiling  on,  and  noting  nothing  of  the  outer 
fabric,  save 

It  might  be  a  gilded  sunset,  or  the  moonlight 
on  the  wave  ? " 


XI. 

As  I  spoke,  a  filmy  vapor,  edged  with  pearl  and 

silver  gray, 
Passed    across    the    moon's    broad    circle,    as   it 

floated  on  its  way, 
And   a  glittering  path  of  diamonds  far  athwart 

the  ocean  lay : 


Art  and  Nature.  37 

All    the    heavenly    vault   seemed   opened   where 

the  moon  in  ether  rode, 
And    like    Cleopatra's  jewels   on    the   dusk   the 

planets  glowed, 
While,  below,  the  smoky  bonfires  made  a  vulgar 

palinode. 

XII. 

"  There !  "  said  Florence,  then  outstretching  her 
white  hand  toward  the  sea, 

"  Dian  thus  asserts  her  greatness,  —  her  fair  right 
of  royalty ; 

Keep  you  all  your  baleful  beacons,  —  leave  the 
moon  and  stars  to  me ! " 

Then  she  drew  her  robe  about  her,  for  the  air 
was  growing  chill, 

And  we  homeward  strolled  together,  by  the  path 
around  the  hill, 

Silently,  and  gazing  seaward,  where  the  moon- 
path  glittered  still. 


PSYCHE'S   FEET. 

T  T  ER  feet,  they  are  so  small, 
*•  *    So  delicate  her  tread, 
The  daisies  do  not  bend  at  all 
When  she  walks  overhead  ; 
But  each  looks  up,  and  falls  in  love 
With  Psyche's  tiny  feet  above. 

She  walks  with  such  an  art, 

And  steps  so  daintily, 
If  she  should  tread  upon  my  heart, 

'T  would  still  unbroken  be  ; 
Unless  't  were  by  the  loveliness 
Which  Psyche's  tiny  feet  possess ! 


MY    WIND-HARP. 

\  T  THAT  faint,  sad  sounds  are  these,  the  air 
^  *  pervading  ? 

Rising  and  falling  with  the  winds  that  blow ; 
Now  keenly  clear,  like  elfish  serenading, 

And  now  like  angel-music,  sweet  and  low. 

Is  it  the  gentle  breeze  of  summer,  mourning 
Over  its  loved  June  roses.'  early  death  ? 

Or  doth  Azrae'l  give  a  solemn  warning 

To  those  he  claims,  with  such  melodious  breath  ? 

No  :  't  is  my  wind-harp,  in  the  window  lying . . . 

I  love  to  hear  it,  while  I  string  sad  rhymes ; 
For  its  faint  tones,  like  ghosts  of  dead  songs,  sigh 
ing, 

Bring  me  quaint  fancies  of  the  olden  times. 


SEA-SHORE    FANCIES. 

PLEASANT  waters,  rippling  on  the  sand, 

Green  and  pellucid  as  the  beryl-stone, 
With  crested  breakers  heaving  toward  the  land, 

Chanting  their  ceaseless  breezy  monotone, 
What  snowy  little  feet  at  girlish  play 
Have  ye  not  kissed  on  Newport's  beach  to-day  ? 

O  waves,  that  foam  around  yon  lonely  rock, 
Boding  the  distant  storm  with  hoarser  roar, 

Has  not  some  ship,  beneath  the  tempest's  shock, 
Gone  down,  a  piteous  wreck,  to  rise  no  more  ? 

Lost  in  the  mighty  billows'  wash  and  sway, 

What  gallant  hearts  have  ye  not  stilled  to-day  ? 

O  dancing  breakers,  fresh  from  other  seas 

Whereon  the  lingering,  loving  sunshine  smiles, 
Your  spray  is  fragrance,  on  the  fragrant  breeze, 


Sea- Shore  Fancies.  41 

Borne  from  the  spice-groves  of  those  palmy  isles 
Where  dusky  maids  make  merriment  alvvay,  — 
Have  ye  not  laved  their  perfect  forms  to-day  ? 

O  tossing  billows,  come  ye  from  afar 
Where  over  ice-fields  the  aurora  beams, 

Dimming  the  radiance  of  the  northern  star 

That  through  the  lengthened  night  of  winter 
gleams 

Upon  the  toppling  icebergs,  grim  and  gray,  — 

Have  ye  not  lashed  their  frozen  sides  to-day  ? 

O  sea  of  life,  whose  waters  heave  .and  roll, 

Ye  lave  sad  wrecks  and  joyous  youthful  forms : 

Ye  bring  sweet  fragrance  to  the  weary  soul, 
And  chill  it  with  the  breath  of  icy  storms : 

Here  on  the  shore  we  smile  and  weep  and  pray,  — 

O  waves,  cleanse  all  our  sins  from  us  to-day ! 


THE    OMEN. 

A     STORM  is  gathering  in  the  seaward  sky, 
•*  *•  The  sunlit  islands  in  its  shadow  die, 
And  startled  sea-gulls  on  the  wind  flap  by. 

Yet,  faint  and  far,  a  single  sunset  ray 
Slants  o'er  the  waters  many  a  mile  away, 
Making  yon  sail  a  Pleiad  gone  astray. 

That  ray  is  like  one  hope  that  lingers  still 
Through   fears  that   sicken   and  through  doubts 

that  chill  — 
The  victory  of  passion  over  will ! 

The  black  clouds  thicken :  well,  so  let  it  be  : 
But  while  yon  sunlit  sail  I  still  can  see, 
I  will  believe  that  there  is  hope  for  me ! 


TJie  Omen.  43 

The  shadows  spread  along  the  horizon, 

...  It  faints  ...  it  fades  ;  the  sail  is  almost  gone, 

And  with  it  pales  the  hope  just  now  that  shone. 

'T  is  gone  !  The  waves  upon  the  rocky  shore 
Break  heavily,  with  hoarse  and  hungry  roar, 
And  hope  has  vanished,  to  return  no  more ! 


SEPTEMBER    DAYS. 

T  N  flickering  light  and  shade  the  broad  stream 

goes, 
With  cool,  dark  nooks  and  checkered,  rippling 

shallows ; 

Through  reedy  fens  its  sluggish  current  flows, 
Where  lilies  grow  and  purple-blossomed  mallows. 

The  aster-blooms  above  its  eddies  shine, 

With  pollened  bees  about  them  humming  slowly, 

And  in  the  meadow-lands  the  drowsy  kine 

Make   music   with   their   sweet   bells,    tinkling 
lowly. 

The  shrill  cicala,  on  the  hillside  tree, 

Sounds  to  its  mate  a  note  of  love  or  warning ; 

And  turtle-doves  re-echo,  plaintively, 

From  upland  fields,  a  soft,  melodious  mourning. 


September  Days.  45 

A  golden  haze  conceals  the  horizon, 

A  golden  sunshine  slants  across  the  meadows ; 
The  pride  and  prime  of  summer-time  is  gone, 

But  beauty  lingers  in  these  autumn  shadows. 

The  wild-hawk's  shadow  fleets  across  the  grass, 
Its  softened  gray  the  softened  green  outvying  ; 

And  fair  scenes  fairer  grow  while  yet  they  pass, 
As  breezes  freshen  when  the  day  is  dying. 

O  sweet  September !  thy  first  breezes  bring 

The  dry  leaf's  rustle  and  the  squirrel's  laughter, 

The  cool,  fresh  air,  whence  health  and  vigor  spring, 
And  promise  of  exceeding  joy  hereafter. 


GOLDEN-ROD. 

IKE  the  nodding  crest  of  a  golden  helm, 
•*— '     When  the  autumn  west-wind  bloweth, 
Among  the  thickets  of  birch  and  elm 

On  the  steep  hillside  it  groweth. 
There,  when  summer  was  young  and  fair, 
And  wild-wood  roses  scented  the  air, 
I  sat  with  hazel-eyed  maiden  Clare. . . . 
Alack !  who  knoweth 
How  love  goeth  ? 

The  hazel-eyed  one  was  fickle  as  gay  ; 
The  wild-wood  roses  have  faded  away  ; 
And  the  golden-rod  blooms  on  their  graves  to-day ! 

Well ;  let  a  golden  peace  uprise 

On  the  grave  where  my  passion  lieth  ! 

Let  me  forget  the  hazel  eyes ! 
As  the  bee,  that  southward  hieth, 


Golden-Rod.  47 

Forgetteth  the  wild-wood  roses  fair 
When  the  golden-rod  shineth  upon  the  air, 
So  let  me  forget  the  maiden  Clare  ! 

Alack !  who  knoweth 

How  love  goeth  ? 

Why  should  I  sigh  for  Clare  alway  ? 
Genevieve's  eyes  have  a  gentler  sway  ; 
And  she  smiled  —  ah,  sweetly  !  —  on  me  to-day  ! 


THE    LILY    OF    THE    NILE. 

"X/'OU  know  that  great,  white  lily, — 

That  stately  cup  of  creamy  snow, - 
That  rears  an  alabaster  lamp, 
With  broad,  green  blades  below  ? 

Madge  has,  within  her  chamber, 

This  scion  of  Nilotian  race, 
To  typify  the  purity 

That  reigns  about  the  place. 

One  day,  a  bud,  fresh  opened, 

Shone  out,  a  flower  full-blown  and  fair, 
And  Madge  —  it  was  a  way  of  hers  — 

Bent  down  and  kissed  it  there. 

Her  ripe,  red  lips  touched  softly 
Upon  the  cup  of  creamy  snow, — 

O,  would  that  I  a  lily  were, 
That  Madge  might  kiss  me  so ! 


OCTOBER. 

hill  and  field  October's  glories  fade; 
O'er  hill  and  field  the  blackbirds  southward 

fly; 

The  brown  leaves  rustle  down  the  forest  glade, 
Where  naked  branches  make  a  fitful  shade, 
And  the  last  blooms  of  autumn  withered  lie. 

The  berries  on  the  hedgerow  ripen  well, 

Holly  and  cedar,  burning  bush  and  brier  ; 
The  partridge  drums  in  some  half-hidden  dell, 
Where  all  the  ground  is  gemmed  with  leaves  that 

fell, 
Last  storm,  from  the  tall  maple's  crown  of  fire. 

The  chirp  of  crickets  and  the  hum  of  bees 

Come  faintly  up  from  marsh  and  meadow  land, 
Where  reeds  and  rushes  whisper  in  the  breeze, 


50  October. 

And   sunbeams   slant   between    the    moss-grown 

trees, 
Green  on  the  grass  and  golden  on  the  sand. 

From  many  a  tree  whose  tangled  boughs  are  bare 
Lean  the  rich  clusters  of  the  clambering  vine ; 
October's  mellow  hazes  dim  the  air 
Upon  the  uplands,  and  the  valley  where 
The  distant  steeples  of  the  village  shine. 

Adown  the  brook  the  dead  leaves  whirling  go  ; 

Above  the  brook  the  scarlet  sumacs  burn  ; 
The  lonely  heron  sounds  his  note  of  woe 
In  gloomy  forest-swamps  where  rankly  grow 

The  crimson  cardinal  and  feathery  fern. 

Autumn  is  sad  :  a  cold,  blue  horizon 

Darkly  encircles  checkered  fields  and  farms, 
Where  late  the  gold  of  ripening  harvests  shone  : 
But  bearded  grain  and  fragrant  hay  are  gone, 
And    autumn    moans    the    loss    of    summer's 
charms. 


October.  5 1 

Yet,  though  our  summers  change  and  pass  away, 

Though  dies  the  beauty  of  the  hill  and  plain, 

Though  warmth  and  color  fade  with  every  day, 

Our  hearts  shall  change  not,  for  hope  seems  to  say 

That  all  our  dearest  joys  shall  come  again. 

And  if  the  flowers  we  nurture  with  such  care 

Must  wither,  though  bedewed  with  many  tears, 
They  shall  arise  in  some  diviner  air, 
To  bloom    again,  more  fragrant  and  more  fair, 
And  gladden  us  through  all  the  coming  years. 

The  sun  sinks  slowly  toward  the  far-off  west  ; 

The  breeze  is  freshening  from  the  far-off  shore  ; 
So  come,  fair  eve,  and  bring  to  every  breast 
That  sense  of  tranquil  joy,  of  gentle  rest, 

We  knew  in  happy  autumns  gone  before! 


SUMMER    AND    AUTUMN. 

GORGEOUS  leaves  are  whirling  down, 
Homeward  comes  the  scented  hay, 
O'er  the  stubble,  sear  and  brown, 
Flaunt  the  autumn  flowers  gay  : 
Ah,  alas  ! 
Summers  pass,  — 
Like  our  joys,  they  pass  away  ! 


Fanned  by  many  a  balmy  breeze, 

In  the  spring  I  loved  to  lie 
'Neath  the  newly  budded  trees, 
Gazing  upward  to  the  sky  : 
But,  alas ! 
Time  will  pass, 
And  the  flowers  of  spring  must  die  ! 


Summer  and  Autumn.  53 

Oft  my  maiden  sat  with  me, 

Listening  to  the  thrush's  tone, 
Warbled  forth  from  every  tree 

Ere  the  meadow  hay  was  mown  : 
But,  alas! 
Summers  pass,  — 
Now,  I  wander  all  alone  ! 


Love,  like  summer-time,  is  fair, 

Decked  with  buds  and  blossoms  gay  ; 
But  upon  this  autumn  air 

Floats  a  voice,  which  seems  to  say 
"  Loves,  alas  ! 
Also  pass, 
As  the  summers  pass  away  ! " 


THE   MERRY   CHRISTMAS   TIME. 

GREEN  were  the  meadows  with  last  summer's 
store  ; 

The  maples   rustled  with  a  wealth  of  leaves  ; 
The  brook  went  babbling  to  the  pebbly  shore, 
Down  by  the  old  mill,  with  its  cobwebbed  door, 

And    swallow-haunted  eaves  ; 
And  all  the  air  was  warm  and  calm  and  clear, 
As  if  cold  winter  never  could  come  near. 

Now,    the    wide    meadow-lands  where    then   we 

strolled 

Are  misty  with  a  waste  of  whirling  snow  : 
The  ruined  maples,  stripped  of  autumn's  gold, 
Sigh  mournfully  and  shiver  in  the  cold, 
As  the  hoarse  north-winds  blow. 
Yet  something  makes  this  frosty  season  dear, . . . 
The  Merry  Merry  Christmas  time  is  here. 


The  Merry  Christmas  Time.  55 

The  Merry  Christmas,  with  its  generous  boards, 
Its  fire-lit  hearths,  and  gifts,  and  blazing  trees, 
Its  pleasant  voices  uttering  gentle  words, 
Its  genial  mirth,  attuned  to  sweet  accords, 

Its  holy  memories  ! 

The  fairest  season  of  the  passing  year, . . . 
The  Merry  Merry  Christmas  time  is  here. 

The  sumacs  by  the  brook  have  lost  their  red  ; 

The  mill-wheel  in  the  ice  stands  dumb  and  still ; 
The  leaves  have  fallen  and  the  birds  have  fled  ; 
The  flowers  we  loved  in  summer  all  are  dead, 

And  wintry  winds  blow  chill. 
Yet  something  makes  this  dreariness  less  drear, . . . 
The  Merry  Merry  Christmas  time  is  here. 

Since  last  the  panes  were  hoar  with  Christmas 

frost 

Unto  our  lives  some  changes  have  been  given  ;  — 
Some  of  our  barks  have  labored,  tempest-tossed, 
Some  of  us,  too,  have  loved,  and  some  have  lost, 
Some  found  their  rest  in  heaven. 


56  The  Merry  Christmas  Time. 

So,  humanly,  we  mingle  smile  and  tear, 
When  Merry  Christmas  time  is  drawing  near. 

Then  pile  the  fagots  higher  on  the  hearth, 

And  fill  the  cup  of  joy,  though  eyes  be  dim. 
We  hail  the  day  that  gave  our  Saviour  birth, 
And  pray  His  spirit  may  descend  on  earth, 

That  we  may  follow  Him. 

'T  is  this  that  makes  the  Christmas  time  so  dear  : 
Christ,  in  His  love  for  us,  seems  drawing  near. 


THE    POET'S    AWAKENING. 

T     ONG  had  he  been  a  thing  of  common  clay, 
T"^         A  being  of  earthly  mould  ; 
But,  lo  !  an  angel  crossed  his  path,  one  day, 
And  turned  the  clay  to  gold. 

Silent  was  he  :  the  angel  came  again, 

And,  as  she  passed  along, 
She  kissed  his  lips  all  lovingly,  and  then 

He  opened  them  in  song. 


JACOB'S    LADDER. 

T  T  was  a  prophet  slept ; 

-••    And     in    his     dream    vast     mysteries     were 

seen, — 

A  vapory  cloud,  that  seemed  to  lower  and  lift, 
Pierced  in  its  centre  by  a  glittering  rift, 
With  splendid  glimpses  of  the  heaven  between ;  — 
And  still  the  prophet  slept. 

A  ladder  from  the  earth 

Far-slanting  touched  the  opening  of  the  cloud. 
Thereon  the  prophet  saw  fair  figures  go, 
With  stately  steps,  serenely  to  and  fro,  — 
Fair  angels,  filmy-winged  and  tranquil-browed, 
Between  the  heaven  and  earth. 

O  prophet's  dream  of  heaven  ! 
Do  I  unfold  your  mystery  aright  ? 


Jacob's  Ladder.  59 

Was  not  that  ladder  typical  of  love, 
That  leads  us  to  our  glorious  home  above, 
And,  thronged  with  angels,  tranquil-browed  and 

bright, 
Makes  earth  seem  near  to  heaven  ? 


DEEP    EYES. 

eyes  ! . . .  those  eyes  ! . . . 
-*-       O  maiden,  turn  those  eyes  away! 
My  best  ambition  faints  and  dies 

Beneath  their  gentle  sway. 
I  list    not   fame's  loud  trumpet-call, 

But  idly  sit  and  linger  still, 
A  slave  within  the  pleasant  thrall 

Of  those  deep  eyes  and  thy  sweet  will. 

Those  eyes  ! . . .  those  eyes  ! . . . 

While  haunted  by  their  lustrous  gleam, 
I  care  not  to  be  great  or  wise, 

And  life  seems  like  a  dream. 
The  golden  hours  unnoted  fly, 

From  idle  night  to  idle  day : 
My  books  and  pen  neglected  lie  — 

O  maiden,  turn  those  eyes  away ! 


JAM    SATIS. 

"X  T  OT  much  for  sordid,  golden  dross  I  care, 
*•  ^       I  wish  not  much  of  worldly  wealth  to  hold. 
Seek  her  I  love  :  look  on  her  shining  hair, — 
Is  it  not  wealth  of  gold  ? 

I  am  not  envious  of  the  diamond's  flash  ; 

Its  wondrous  brilliance  dazzleth  not  my  sight ; 
For  her  sweet  eyes,  beneath  their  fringed  lash, 
Make  dim  the  diamond's  light. 

I  care  no  more  for  music's  dreamy  swell  ; 
Nor  flute  nor  viol  greatly  pleaseth  me  ; 
Her  speech  is  softer  than  a  silver  bell, 
Her  laugh  is  melody. 

I  leave  the  wine  which  once  I  loved  to  sip  : 

Why  should  I  drain  the  crimson  beaker  dry, 
When  there  is  subtle  nectar  on  her  lip 
That  I  may  drink  —  and  die  ? 


MIDNIGHT    MUSIC. 

\  T  7  HEN  the  sun  has  passed  away, 
*  *     When  the  night  has  crowned  the  day, 
And  the  planet's  trembling  radiance 
Rules  above  with  gentle  sway ; 

Through  the  sighing  poplar-trees 
Floats  a  cadence  on  the  breeze,  — 
Up  into  the  moonlit  heaven, 
Out  across  the  moonlit  seas. 

In  the  grand  old  garden,  near, 
Manly  voices,  singing  clear, 
Mingled  with  the  quivering  viol, 
Pierce  the  midnight  atmosphere. 

O,  't  is  sweet,  when  day  has  flown, 
By  the  casement,  all  alone, 


Midnight  Music.  63 

Thus  to  sit,  and  drink,  like  nectar, 
Midnight  music's  regal  tone ! 

Lady,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Seest  thou  him  who  stands  apart  ? 
None  could  sing  thus  save  a  lover, 
And  his  song  should  win  thy  heart ! 


A 


WINE    SONG. 

S  I  pour  the  wine, 
I  behold  its  sparkles  bright 

Tis  the  light 
Beaming,  lady  mine, 
In  those  eyes  of  thine,  — 
Beaming  deeply  bright. 

As  I  pour  the  wine, 
I  behold  its  rosy  flush  :  — 

'Tis  the  blush 
Mantling,  lady  mine, 
That  fair  face  of  thine,  — 

Rosy-tinted  blush. 

As  I  pour  the  wine, 
Its  fragrance  I  descry  :  — 
'T  is  the  sigh 


Wine  Song.  65 

Coming,  lady  mine, 
From  that  mouth  of  thine,  — 
Love's  half-stifled  sigh. 

As  I  drink  the  wine, 
Thrills  my  heart  with  sudden  bliss  :  — 

Like  the  kiss 

That  proclaims  thee  mine. . . . 
Is  there  aught  divine 

Save  a  lover's  kiss  ? 


LUCIDORA. 

a  moorland  strange  and  lonely 
Leans  an  ancient  trysting-tree  ; 
There  I  sit  and  ponder  only 
On  the  days  long  past  for  me. 
Lucidora  ! .  . .  Lucidora  ! 
Sweet  and  sad  are  dreams  of  thee  ! 

Here  we  met  in  summer's  blooming, 
Happy    in  those  days  were  we  ; 

But  the  winter  snows,  entombing 
All  our  joys,  have  fallen  on  me. 

Lucidora ! . . .  Lucidora  ! 
Few  are  loved  as  I  loved  thee  ! 

Thou  wert  fair, . . .  none  else  were  fairer.  .  . 

Stars  that  light  a  tropic  sea 
Have  no  radiant  lustre  rarer 


Lucidora.  67 

Than  the  light  thou  gavest  to  me. . . . 

Lucidora  ! . . .  Lucidora  ! 
Naught  on  earth  was  like  to  thee  ! 

Those  dear  days  are  gone  forever, 
Vacant  must  my  poor  heart  be  ; 

For  lost  joys,  returning  never, 
Leave  this  world  a  void  to  me. 

Lucidora  ! . . .  Lucidora  ! 
I  can  only  weep  for  thee  ! 


ON    THE    BEACH. 

/T~^HE  wind  is  wild  on  the  sea  to-night, 

•*-     The  surf  is  roaring  loud  ; 
The  sand-flats  gleam  with  spectres  white,  — 

Spectres  of  mist  in  a  misty  shroud,  — 
And  O,  't  is  a  fearful  night ! 

Alone  on  the  shore  I  wander  wide  ; 

The  wind  flings  back  my  hair  ; 
The  Past's  dim  ghosts  about  me  ride 

In  shadowy  troops  on  the  murky  air, 
And  over  the  sea-beach  wide. 

The  light  gleams  forth  from  the  fisher's  cot 
And  shimmers  along  the  shore  : 

The  fisher  heeds  the  tempest  not,  — 

He  takes  no  note  of  the  ocean's  roar, 

As  he  sits  in  his  peaceful  cot. 


On  the  Beach.  69 

Ah,  deep  in  the  waves  of  yonder  sea, 

My  loved  one  lies  at  rest. 
A  cold,  white  hand  is  beckoning  me 

To  find  repose  on  that  cold,  white  breast, 
Lying  beneath  the  sea. 


LAUREL. 

O  TWINE  no  garland  for  my  brows, 
Of  laurel  buds  and  blossoms  fair  ; 
But  let  the  leaves  hang  on  their  boughs,  — 
For  them  I  do  not  care. 

'T  is  true  the  leaf  is  smooth  and  fine, 
And  groweth  with  a  goodly  grace  ; 

But  hero's  wreaths,  on  brows  like  mine, 
Were  sadly  out  of  place ! 

I  care  not  for  such  vanity  ; 

I  care  not  to  prolong  my  name  ; 
Since  she  whose  love  is  life  to  me 

Can  never  share  my  fame. 

Then  twine  no  hero's  wreath,  good  friends  ; 

For  earthly  fame  hath  naught  to  bless 
The  singer  whose  ambition  ends 

With  sweet  forgetfulness. 


ALONE    BY   THE   SHORE. 

T   WALK  by  the  shore,  by  the  shore,  - 
-*•       I  walk  by  the  shore  of  the  sounding  sea, 
And  hear  in  its  loud  and  thunderous  roar 
A  voice  calling  out  on  me. 

I  sit  on  the  sand,  on  the  sand, 

The  foam  and  the  froth  go  swirling  by  ; 

The  wind  whispers  gently  over  the  land, 
And  seems  like  a  human  sigh  ;  — 

A  sigh  for  a  friend,  for  a  friend, — 
A  calm    and  a  true  and  a  noble  soul, 

Whose  friendship  and  faith  might  nevermore  end, 
As  long  as  these  breakers  roll. 

Far  out  in  the  west,  in  the  west, 

The  sun  through  his  robe  of  vapor  gleams  ; 


72  Alone  by  the  Shore. 

And  so,  like  a  king,  right  royally  dressed, 
Goes  down  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

I  look  on  my  life,  on  my  life, 
A  selfish  battle  it  seems  to  me  ; 

I  long  for  rest  from  its  terrible  strife, 
Far  down  in  the  deep,  deep  sea. 

I  walk  by  the  shore,  by  the  shore, 

And  still  as  I  gaze  on  the  fading  west, 

I  list  to  the  voice  with  its  thunderous  roar, 
"  O  come,  for  the  dead  find  rest !  " 


I    WANT    NOT    LOVE. 

T    WANT  not  love,  but  who  will  be  my  friend  ? 

•*•    I  feel  the  need  of  some  kind  soul,  to  strew 
My  way  with  blossoms,  as  I  wander  slow 

Down  toward  the  valley  where  all  paths  must  end 

Can  I  not  find  a  friend  ? 

I  want  not  love,  —  I  only  want  a  friend. 

Love's  joys  are  rapture,  but  its  pains  are  death  ; 

And  joys   and    pains   to   love     are    food    and 

breath  ; 

So,  when  these  weary  arms  I  would  extend, 
Let  them  enfold  a  friend  ! 

I  want  not  love,  —  ah  no  !  I  want  a  friend  ! 

Why  should  a  broken  heart  be  tortured  still  ? 

Have  I  not  had  of  misery  my  fill  ?  ... 
But  thou  who  readest  what  I  here  have  penned,  — 
Wilt  thou  not  be  my  friend  ? 


IN    THE    ORGAN-LOFT. 

r  I  ^HE  dead  in  their  ancient  graves  are  still ;. 

-^    There  they  Ve  slept  for  many  a  year  ; 
The  last  faint  sunbeams  glance  o'er  the  hill, 
Gilding  the  dry  grass,  tall  and  sear, 

And  the  foam  of  the  babbling  rill. 

• 

Into  the  church  the  ruddy  light  falls, 

Through  rich  stained  windows,  narrow  and  high  ; 

Pictures  it  paints  on  the  old,  gray  walls, 

Scenes  from  the  days  that  have  long  gone  by, — 

And  hark!  —  'tis  my  Rosalie  calls! 

She  calls  my  name,  —  I  have  heard  it  oft 

Just  at  the  golden  sun's  decline : 
I  answer  the  call,  so  sweet  and  soft ; 

And,  turning,  see  where  her  bright  eyes  shine, 
High  up  in  the  organ-loft. 


In  the  Organ-Loft.  75 

I  pass  the  winding  and  narrow  stair  ; 

The  gallery  door  stands  open  wide  ; 
I  know  no  shadow  of  pain  nor  care, 

While  darling  Rosalie  stands  by  my  side, 
In  the  sunset  light  so  fair. 

What  grand  old  hymns  and  chants  we  sang,  — 
Grand  old  chants  that  I  loved  so  well  ; 

And  the  organ's  tones,  —  how  they  pealed  and  rang, 
Piercing  the  heart,  no  tongue  can  tell, 

With  what  a  delicious  pang  ! 

O  those  hours  !  what  holy  light 

Hovers  around  when  their  memories  rise ! 
Music,  love,  and  the  sunset  bright, 

Tenderest  glances  from  Rosalie's  eyes, 
And  a  long,  sweet  kiss,  for    good-night ! 


THE  BROKEN  CAVALIER'S  SONG. 


["  '  Well,'  said  Don  Sebastian,  '  our  Spanish  wine  is  sweet,  if  life  is  bitter  ! ' 
And,  taking  up  the  mandoline,  with  a  kind  of  sad  gayety,  he  began  to  sing."  — 
Don  Sebastian  de  Cervenas.] 


r  I  ^HE  jolly  old  world  goes  rolling  round,  — 

-^-       Drink  wine,  brothers  mine  ! 
The  dead  lie  sleeping  under  ground,  — 

Drink  wine !  't  is  this  we  're  drinking 
Kills  all  care  and  stops  all  thinking. 

Drink  wine,  beverage  fine ! 
See  through  the  goblets  the  rosy  light  shine  : 
Happiness  lies  in  a  flagon  of  wine  ! 

The  maiden  I  loved  was  fair  to  see,  — 

Drink  wine,  brothers  mine  ! 
But  long  ago  she  jilted  me,  — 

Drink  wine  !  let  glasses  clinking 
Kill  our  cares  and  drown  our  thinking ! 

Drink  wine,  beverage  fine, 


TJic  Broken  Cavalier  s  Song.  77 

No  maiden's  eyes  can  rival  its  shine  ! 
Happiness  lies  in  a  flagon  of  wine  ! 

I  trusted  a.  friend  whom  I  thought  true,  — 

Drink  wine,  brothers  mine  ! 
He  played  me  false  and  robbed  me  too,  — 

Drink  wine  !  't  is  this  we  're  drinking 
Keeps  our  spirits  up  from  sinking  ! 

Drink  wine,  beverage  fine ! 
Friendship  nor  love  were  e'er  half  so  divine ; 
Happiness  lies  in  a  flagon  of  wine ! 

My  houses  and  lands,  both  park  and  moor, — 

Drink  wine,  brothers  mine  ! 
Have  passed  away  and  left  me  poor,  — 

Drink  wine!   'tis  this  we're  drinking 
Kills  all  care  and  stops  all  thinking  ! 

Drink  wine,  beverage  fine  ! 
Brighter  than  gold  is  its  glimmering  shine  : 
Happiness  lies  in  a  flagon  of  wine  ! 


IN    THE    ALCOVE. 

ROUND  and  round  the  waltzers  twirled  ; 
Through  the  hall  the  music  rang,  — 
Viol's  hum  and  cymbal's  clang,  — 
Is  not  this  a  pleasant  world  ? 

But  Lady  Clare  passed  by  me, 

And  her  lip  was  curved  with  scorn  ; 

I  sat  me  down  in  an  alcove, 
And  wished  I  never  was  born. 

Up  and  down  the  glittering  room 

Went  each  dame  and  cavalier, 
In  the  triple  atmosphere 

Of  light,  and  music,  and  perfume. 

But  Lady  Clare  walked  by  me, 

And  tossed  her  delicate  head  ; 
So  there  I  sat  in  the  alcove, 

Wishing  that  I  were  dead. 


AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


WAS  born  some  time   ago,  but   I  know  not 


why  : 


I    have   lived,  —  I    hardly    know    either   how    or 

where  : 

Some  time  or  another,  I  suppose,  I  shall  die  ; 
But  where,    how,   or  when,    I   neither  know   nor 

care  ! 


AT    THE    CIRCUS. 


A   CROSS  the  stage,  with  its  blaze  of  lights, 
•*•  *•     From  fly  to  fly  in  the  heated  air 
A  slack  rope  hung,  and  in  spangled  tights 
Sat  "  Signor  "  somebody  swinging  there. 


Now  he  swung  by  a  single  arm  ; 

Now  by  a  single  leg  swung  he  ; 
A  fall  had  done  him  a  grievous  harm, 

He  balanced  and  turned  so  recklessly. 

I  watched  awhile.     "  It  is  well,"  I  said, 
"  If  people  want  reckless  feats,  it  is  well. 

The  tickets  are  bought,  the  money  is  paid, 
And  'twere  more  of  a  show  if  he  but  fell." 

I  turned  away  :  he  was  swinging  yet : 

And  I  glanced  on  the  crowded  house  around,  — 


At  the  Circus.  8 1 

Boxes,  circle,  and  wide  parquette 

Breathlessly  watching,  without  a  sound. 

In  a  graceful  pose,  on  a  cushioned  seat, 
I  saw  Her  sitting,  to  gaze  at  the  man. 

You  could  almost  have  heard  my  poor  heart  beat, 
With  the  riotous  blood  that  through  it  ran. 

There  she  sat,  with  her  splendid  eyes 

Fixed  on  the  fellow  so  earnestly, 
With  more  of  the  interest  I  should  prize 

Than  ever  she  gave  in  a  glance  to  me. 

Every  time  that  he  balanced  and  turned, — 
O,  but  her  eyes  grew  large  and  shone, 

Her  bosom  heaved  and  her  fair  cheek  burned : 
To  me  she  had  been  like  a  block  of  stone. 

This  poor,  pitiful  circus  man, 

Swinging  each  night  for  his  daily  bread, 
Had  moved  her  more,  since  his  act  began, 

Than  I  could,  stretched  on  my  dying-bed. 
6 


82  At  the  Circus. 

Hollow,  hollow,  and  false  as  hell ! 

Love  is  a  cheat,  and  life  is  a  wreck ! 

* 

What  cared  I  if  he  swung  or  fell  ? 
What  cared  I  if  he  broke  his  neck  ? 


DRINKING    WINE. 

"  Plus  sitiunt  plus  bibunt." 

T)OUR  the  mingled  cream  and  amber! 
-*-        Let  me  drain  the  bowl  again  ! 
Such  hilarious  visions  clamber 

Through  the  chambers  of  my  brain. 
Quaintest  jests  and  queerest  fancies 

Spring  to  life  and  fade  away  : 
What  care  I  how  time  advances  ? 

I  am  drinking  wine  to-day. 

Here  's  a  motto  terse  and  sentient, 

By  it  I  will  live  and  die  ! 
Words  of  some  rare  tippling  ancient, 

"  Ever  drunken,  ever  dry." 
Fill  again  !  let  bubbles  blind  me ! 

Sorrow,  hide  thy  face  away  ! 


84  Drinking   Wine. 

Satan,  get  thee  hence  behind  me,  — 
I  am  drinking  wine  to-day. 

Cease  thy  prate  of  worldly  glory, 

Cease  thy  prate  of  worldly  gold  ! 
I  have  heard  that  pleasant  story 

Till  it  sounds  a  little  old. 
Let  me  drop  such  low  ambitions  ; 

Glory  gnaws  the  heart  away  ; 
Gold  demands  too  stern  conditions,  — 

I  am  drinking  wine  to-day. 

One  more  bowl  —  a  goodly  measure  - 

Ere  my  merry  mood  be  gone  ! 
Wine 's  a  feast  of  perfect  pleasure,  — 

Feast  without  a  skeleton. 
Love  is  false,  and  hope  is  waning  ; 

Life  a  failure  is  alway  ! 
Wine 's  the  only  good  remaining,  — 

Let  me  drain  its  lees  to-day. 


SONG    OF    THE    SENSUOUS. 

BRING  me  grapes,  whose  regal  juice 
All  my  pent-up  soul  shall  loose  ! 
Bring  me  snow-crowned  amber  goblets, 
Overflown  with  liquid  mirth  ! 
Let  the  night  consume  the  day  ; 
Suns  and  moons  pass  swift  away  ; 
Let  my  life  fade  into  pleasure  ; 
I  am  earthy,  —  of  the  earth  ! 

Let  me  choose  myself  a  bride, 

Snowy-bosomed,  dreamy-eyed  ; 
Let  our  love  to  new  expressions 

Every  fleeting  hour  give  birth ! 

Locked  in  passion's  close  caress, 

Let  us  find  forgetfulness  ! 
What  care  I  for  aspirations  ? 

I  am  earthy,  —  of  the  earth  ! 


86  Song  of  the  Sensuous. 

Ye  who    list    fame's  trumpet-call, 

Waste  your  lives  and  pleasures  all ; 
When  your  eyes  in  death  are  glazing, 

What  are  future  glories  worth  ? 

Give  me  woman,  wine,  and  sleep ! 

They  who  are  in  earnest    weep  : 
Let  me  love  and  drink  forever ! 

I  am  earthy,  —  of  the  earth  ! 


QUAN'D    MEME. 

i. 
WI LIGHT  is  red  in  the  west,  and  just  where 

the  sun  went  down 
Gleams  a  splendid  halo,  like  that  of  a  pictured 

saint  ; 
The   shadows  of  night  fall  fast,   and  purple  the 

moorlands  brown, 
While  every  passing  moment  the  light  in  the 

sky  grows  faint. 
There  are  long  dark  lines  of  cloud  that  stretch 

themselves  in  the  west, 

And  tell  of  a  bitter  cold  to  come  with  the  com 
ing  clay, 
And  ever  upon  the  wind  there  wails  a  voice  of 

unrest, 

Wailing  and  soughing,  sad  and  low,  for  the  sum 
mer-time  passed  away. 


88  Quand  Mcme. 

n. 
Glorious  Summer !    the  pride,  the  queen  of  the 

livelong  year ; 
When  insects  chirp  in  the  grass,  and  birds  are 

carolling  sweet  ; 
When  the  moors  are  gay  with  flowers,  and  the 

skies  are  diamond-clear, 

And  the  honeyed  clover-blossoms  breathe  fra 
grance  under  our  feet ! 
Here,  on  this  selfsame  moor,  in  a  spirit  of  glad 

content, 
Humming,  perchance,  to  myself,  some  fragment 

of  musical  rhyme, 
Loitering,  wandering  idly,  all  careless  whither  I 

went,  — 

Ah !  how  oft  have  I  walked,  when  the  Summer 
was  in  her  prime  ! 


in. 

Well,   I  am  walking  now  on  the  moorland,  just 
as  then, 


Quand  Mcmc.  89 

But  something  has  changed.    Is  it  I  ?  or  is  it  the 

whole  wide  world  ? 
Does  anything  ever  change,  outside  of  the  hearts 

of  men, 
Drifted  about  by  their  passions,  and  hither  and 

thither  whirled  ? 
I  hum  no  snatches  of  rhyme,  and  a  leaden  weight 

of  pain 

Burdens  my  gloomy  spirit,  and  fevers  my  rest 
less  mind, 
And  I  wander  listless  and  slow,  wantonly  swinging 

my  cane, 

Beating  off  the  golden-rod  tufts  that  rustle  dry 
in  the  wind. 

IV. 

And  still  there  rises  before  me,  wherever  I  turn 

my  gaze, 

The  figure  of  her  that  I  loved,  when  the  summer 
was  blossoming  fair ; 

A  beautiful,  haunting  ghost,  the  love  of  my  sun 
nier  days, 


go  Quand  Mcme. 

With  her  splendid,  shadowy  eyes,  and  her  tor 
rent  of  gleaming  hair. 

Lovely,   loving,    and    loved !    I    remember   every 
caress, 

Every  word  of  endearment,  and  every  gesture 

and  tone  ; 

Even  her  light,  quick  footstep,  the  rustling  of  her 
dress, 

Come  to  waken  the  olden  thought  as  I  walk  on 
the  moor  alone ! 

v. 

Well,  thank  God !  it  is  over,  and  naught  but  the 

ghost  abides  ; 
I  have  cast  her  forth  forever,  and  sealed  the 

gates  of  my  heart ! 
My   pulse  beats  calmly  now,   as  the   flowing   of 

ocean  tides ; 
And    I    know  that   love  is   but   madness,   and 

wisdom  the  better  part : 
For    just  as   a   woman    is   fair,    so    is    she    false 

alway  ; 


Quand  Mcme.  91 

She  is  vain,  and  the  flatterer  wins  where  the 

earnest  man  is  scoffed  ; 
Give  her  but  praise  and  folly,  be  idle,  flippant,  and 


And  just  in  a  due  proportion,  as  your  head  —  so 
her  heart  —  is  soft  ! 

VI. 

O,  how  I  scorn  myself,  that  I  should  be  juggled 

and  fooled, 
Vowing  and  promising  love  to  an  idle-minded 

girl  ; 
Degrading  my  very  manhood,  to  find,  when  my 

blood  had  cooled, 
That  she  had  lent  me  a  tawdry  cheat,  where  I 

had  given  a  pearl  ! 
She,  —  how  well  she  could  smile,  while  her  heart 

was  a  lump  of  ice  ; 
Kiss  me,  and  sharpen  a  dagger  to  deal   me  a 

deadly  blow  ; 

Weave  garlands  of  fairest  blossoms,  to  deck  me,  a 
sacrifice  ; 


92  Quand  Mtine. 

And  call  me  her  dearest  friend,  while  she  was 
my  dearest  foe ! 


VII. 

High  in  the  heavens  above   stretch   threatening 

hands  of  cloud, 
And  a  muttered  malediction  is  whispered  now 

on  the  breeze  ; 
Thus  do  I  stretch  my  hands,  and  curse  the  fickle 

and  proud  ; 
Thus  do  I  curse  from  my  inmost  heart  all  lovely 

liars  like  these ! 
'T  is  the  brand  of  the  eldest  mother  ;  the  cause  of 

the  fall  of  man  ; 
We  are  weak  and  foolish,  and  eat  of  any  fruit 

she  may  give  ; 
And  so  I  curse  them  all,  who  still,  since  the  world 

began, 

Have  smilingly  poisoned  our  hearts  until  we  are 
loath  to  live  ! 


Quand  Meme.  93 

VIII. 

O,  may  the  wrath  of  Heaven  —     But  hold,  —  I 

am  rash,  just  now : 
Would  I  really  wring  her  soul,  and  bring  her  to 

sharp  despair  ? 
Wrinkle,  with  heavy  sorrow,  that  beautiful,  tranquil 

brow, 
And  mingle  silvery  threads  in  the  shining  gold 

of  her  hair  ? 
No  :  I  would  rather  choose  that  she  might  repent 

her  wrong, 
With  a  softened  sadness,  born  of  this  she  has 

brought  to  me  ; 

The  woman,  after  all,  is  not  so  sturdy  and  strong 
As  we,  and  we  should  forgive,  if  we  would  for 
given  be. 

IX. 

Then,   perchance,    in    the   light   that    repentance 

sometimes  shows, 

She  could  see  this  cross  I   bear,  and  pity  my 
weary  lot, 


94  Quand  Meme. 

Till,  in  a  gentler  moment,  touched  deep  by  these 

cruel  woes, 
Her  heart  —  it  was  always  kind  —  might  yield 

once  more  ;  why  not  ? 
Ah,  could  it  only  be  !     What  joy  would  I  not  give 

up, 
To  know  that  my  form  again  in  its  olden  shrine 

were  set ! 
That  again  the  wine  of  life  could   flash  in  the 

jewelled  cup  — 

O  heart   of  mine !    what  is  this  ?     More  than 
ever  I  love  her  yet ! 


VANITAS. 

A   H,  Love  is  very  well, 
-^*"     In  its  way  ; 

But  the  knell 

Seems  a  sadder  tale  to  tell 
Than  the  merry  marriage  bell, 

Of  its  sway  ! 

And  Fame  is  good,  likewise, 
If  you  choose 
To  close  your  eyes 

Till  the  heart's  best  feeling  dies  ; 

And  to  seek  a  higher  prize 
You  refuse  ! 

And  Wine  is  fair  to  see,  — 
Fair  and  sweet 
As  can  be  ; 


g6  Vanitas. 

But  the  joys  it  brings  to  me 
Are  like  to  misery 
And  deceit ! 

Not  Love,  nor  Fame,  nor  Wine 

Satisfy  ; 

All  are  fine, 

But  a  shadow  dims  their  shine  : 
So,  since  naught  of  joy  is  mine, 

Let  me  die ! 


TIRED. 

LOVE  ?  yes,  it  used  to  be  good,  in  its  way, 
When  my  blood  was  warm,  and  my  heart 

was  light  ; 

But  women,  like  men,  are  only  clay, . . . 
They  are  not  angelic,  quite  ! 

Fame  ?  no,  I  hardly  fancy  fame  ; 

The  poet  must  suffer  as  well  as  sing  ; 
I  have  little  taste  for  a  "  deathless  name," 

"  Glory,"  and  that  sort  of  thing  ! 

Wine  ?  I  am  even  tired  of  wine  ; 

It  is  not  so  sweet  as  it  used  to  be  ; 
Once  its  aromas  seemed  divine, 

But  now  they  are  vapid  to  me  ! 

I  remember,  though,  when  I  prized  them  all, . . . 
When  love,  and  fame,  and  wine  had  power 

7 


98  Tired. 

To  bind  me  fast,  in  a  mighty  thrall, 
That  lasted  . . .  may  be  an  hour  ! 

But  love  was  only  an  honest  cheat  ; 

Fame  cost  more  than  it  ever  could  give  ; 
Wine  was  bitter  as  well  as  sweet : 

With  them  it  was  death  to  live  ! 

So  now  I  have  settled  me  down  to  rest,  — 
Perfect  rest  is  my  joy  supreme. 

Of  all  things  earthly  sleep  is  the  best, . . . 
But  I  cannot  bear  to  dream  ! 


AT    NEWPORT. 

[UNFINISHED.] 

T    WALKED  on  Newport's  frowning  rocks  one 

day, 

Watching  the  breakers'  feathery  lines  of  spray 
Dash  sternly  up  against  the  boulders  there, 
To  fall  away  in  nothingness  and  air,  — 
Just  as  we  mortals,  hopeful  and  elate, 
Dash  ourselves  into  nothing,  against  fate  : 
And  —  as  we  mourn  to  find  our  efforts  lost  — 
The  fretted  surf,  in  frothy  turmoil  tossed, 
Made  melancholy  moan,  .and  seemed  to  tell 
How  brightly  hope  arose,  how  soon  it  fell. 

Thus  musing,  I,  in  philosophic  mood, 
Wras  led  upon  man's  littleness  to  brood, 
And  marvelled  if  he  ever  gains  the  prize 
Which  seems  most  worthy  to  his  longing  eyes. . . . 


ioo  At  Newport. 

We  toil  for  wealth,  till,  prematurely  old, 
We  lose  all  taste  for  joys  that  come  of  gold. 
We  labor  hard  for  fame,  and  find  at  last 
That  glory  comes  not  till  the  grave  is  past  ; 
We  sigh  for  leisure,  but  to  learn,  too  late, 
That  heavy  ennui  is  its  wedded  mate. 

"  It  is  the  world,"  I  said,  "  has  gone  astray  ; 
My  star  has  risen  on  a  thankless  day. 
Not  now,  as  once,  where  swords  are  girded  on, 
Can  victors  triumph  when  the  field  is  won. 
The  shout  of  conquering  armies  must  arise 
Only  when  death  has  glazed  the  hero's  eyes, 
And  the  good  news  of  victory  smite  his  ear 
Only,  alas !  when  he  has  ceased  to  hear. 
Bravest  of  all,  he  dies  and  never  knows 
Whether  his  friends  have  triumphed,  or  his  foes. 

"I  will  have  none  of  this.     I  will  forswear 
The  world,  its  feverish  hope,  its  feverish  care. 
The  student's  toil  is  vacant  of  reward 
As  his  who  carves  a  future  with  his  sword. 


At  Newport.  101 

Let  those  who  may  find  joy  in  dusty  books, 
Stagnate  in  alcoves,  dessicate  in  nooks 
Where  dust  and  bigotry  hold  rival  reigns, 
And  scholars   fill   their   heads   with    dead   men's 

brains  ! 

I  will  not  waste  my  life  from  youth  to  age 
To  leave  my  name  upon  a  title-page. 

"And  so  in  all  things  Fate  is  most  unjust. 
Beauty  itself  is  made  of  common  dust. 
The  cynic's  sneer  was  hardly  less  than  true,  — 
Love  is,  indeed,  but  '  selfishness  for  two.' 
Where  Venus  once  with  Hymen  held  her  court, 
Young  men  are  bartered  and  young  maids   are 

bought, 

Unholy  lips  breathe  forth  unholy  vows  ; 
And  fading  blossoms  droop  on  faded  brows. 
So,  till  some  purer  life  than  this  I   see, 
No  nuptial  garland  shall  be  twined  for  me. 

"  I  will  not  mingle  with  my  fellow-men, 
To  be  deceived  and  to  deceive  again. 


IO2  At  Newport. 

Call  me  ascetic,  cynic,  what  you  will, 
I  shall  be  calm  and  philosophic  still, 
And,  all  unheeding  what  the  world  may  say, 
Will  not  bow  down  to  idols  made  of  clay. 
I  care  not  for  the  verdict  of  the  crowd. 
Shame  cannot  crush,  nor  honor  make  me  proud, 
The  while  in  perfect  peace  I   dwell  apart, 
True  to  myself  and  tranquil  in  my  heart. 

"  What  matters  honor  and  what  matters  shame  ? 
A  hundred  years  —  and  all  will  be  the  same. 
Hence  with  the  earthy  idol  and  its  throne,  — 
And  let  me  walk  forgotten  and    alone, 
Where  dancing  mist  and  flying  foam  arise, 
And  distant  seas  commune  with  distant  skies  ; 
Where  slanting  drives  the  white-winged  ocean  bird, 
And  naught  save  thunderous  breakers  can  be  heard, 
Or  solemn  sounds  of  gusty  winds  that  roar 
Down  the  gray  stretches  of  a  ghostly  shore."  . . . 

Thus,  with  the  billows'  murmur  in  my  ear, 
I  was  not  conscious  of  a  footstep  near, 


At  Newport.  103 

And,  self-communing  in  my  solitude, 

Saw  not  a  figure  that  before  me  stood  — 

Until  a  girl-voice,  sweet  as  silver  bells, 

Rang  out,  "  O  come,  and  help  me  gather  shells ! " . . . 

In  dire  retreat  my  gloomy  fancies  fled  ; 

The    train    of    thought    was    lost :     I    raised    my 

head,  — 

And  met  a  Fate  against  whose  rosy  chain 
Philosophers  philosophize  in  vain. 

There,  sharply  drawn  against  a  pearly  sky, 
I  saw  a  face  half  merry  and  half  shy, 
With  shadowy  eyes  and  mouth  of  perfect  mould, 
And  hair  of  softest  brown  in  mixed  with  gold, 
A  slender  figure,  full  of  gentle  grace, 
Matched  the  rare  beauty  of  the  girlish  face : 
And  to  my  eye  the  apparition  seemed 
Something  an  artist  lover  might  have  dreamed, 
After  a  day  of  earnest  strife  with  art, 

To  reproduce  the  darling  of  his  heart. 

***** 


GLORIA. 

[IN    TIME   OF   WAR.] 

'  I  ^HE  laurels  shine  in  the  morning  sun, 

The  tall  grass  shakes  its  glittering  spears, 
And  the  webs  the  spiders  last  night  spun 
Are.  threaded  with  pearly  tears. 

At  peace  with  the  world  and  all  therein, 
I  walk  in  the  fields  this  summer  morn  : 

What  should  I  know  of  sorrow  or  sin, 
Among  the  laurels  and  corn  ? 

But,  hark  !  through  the  corn  a  murmur  comes  — 
'T  is  growing  —  'tis  swelling  —  it  rises  high  — 

The  thunder  of  guns  and  the  roll  of  drums, 
And  an  army  marching  by. 

Away  with  the  sloth  of  peace  and  ease  ! 
'T  is  a  nation's  voice  that  seems  to  call. 


Gloria.  105 

Who  cares  for  aught,  in  times  like  these, 
Save  to  win  —  or  else  to  fall ! 

Farewell,  O  shining  laurels,  now  ! 

I  go  with  the  army  marching  by  : 
Your  leaves,  should  I  win,  may  deck  my  brow, 

Or  my  bier,  if  I  should  die. 


CAMP    COGITATIONS. 

[IN   TIME   OF   WAR.] 
I. 

r  I  ^HE  moon  is  riding,  full,  behind  the  black 
-*•  and  naked  trees, 

Like  a  redly  blazing  beacon  on  the  horizon  it 
gleams ; 

And  the  swaying  cedar  branches  sigh  more 
sadly  in  the  breeze  ; 

And  a  hoarser  voice  is  calling  from  the  angry 
mountain  streams  ; 

In  the  dusk  the  snowy  tents  of  my  companions 
fade  away : 

Rocky  crags  loom  high  above  me,  purple  shad 
ows  round  me  fall, 

And  I  hear  the  clang  of  weapons,  and  the  hun 
gry  chargers'  neigh, 

And  the  measured  tramp  of  columns,  and  the 
evening  bugle-call. 


Camp  Cogitations.  107 

n. 

Eighteen  centuries  have  fleeted  since  upon  the 
earth  there  came 

One  who  taught  the  creed  of  kindness,  of  for 
giveness,  and  of  peace, 

One  who  bade  us  love  our  neighbor  in  the 
Heavenly  Father's  name  : 

Yet  the  god  of  battle  riots,  and  his  temples  still 
increase. 

For  the  ancient  evil  lingers  ;  man  has  war 
within  his  soul, 

So  he  loves  the  clash  and  carnage,  and  the  wild, 
triumphal  shout  : 

Right  and  wrong  against  each  other  strive  with 
in  him  for  control;  — 

Ah,  the  ancient  evil  lingers,  and  he  fain  must 
fight  it  out. 


in. 

I,  who  dwell  in   scenes   of  warfare,    may    I    not 
be  something  dulled 


io8  Camp  Cogitations. 

To  the  finer  shades  of  justice,  to  the  nicer  sense 

of  right  ? 
I,   who  only   do  my  thinking  when  the  battle's 

storm  has  lulled, 
And  there  comes  a  time  of  quiet,  as  upon  this 

wintry  night. 
Can   we,  do   we,    settle   questions,  who    is   right 

and  who  is  wrong, 
By  the  shock  of  rushing  squadrons  and  the  leaden 

hail  and  rain  ? 
Is   there    really   then   a    judgment    in    the   wild, 

unearthly  song 
Of    the    rifled-cannon    bullet    as   it   hurtles   o'er 

the  slain  ? 

IV. 

Ah,  the  finest-drawn  philosophy  must  fall  before 

the  truth  ; 
And  the  truth  is  plain  and   simple,   as  we  own 

with  one  accord  ; 
When   the   foe   is   at   our   thresholds   hoary   age 

and  callow  youth, 


Camp  Cogitations.  109 

Leaving  argument  and  reason,  trust  sublimely 
to  the  sword  ; 

And  the  student  and  the  thinker,  when  the  bat 
tle  is  at  hand, 

When  the  monster  glares  before  them,  seek  to 
bandy  words  no  more  ; 

But  a  splendid  fury  rises,  overwhelming  all  the 
land, 

And  a  nation's  voice  is  lifted  in  the  symphony 
of  war  ! 

v. 

So  the  thinkers  who  determine  all  the  ways  of 
Deity,  - 

All  His  wondrous  means  of  working  out  the 
wisely  hidden  end,  — 

The  philosophers  who  think  to  make  us  think 
that  they  can  see 

How  the  plans  of  God  are  laid,  and  whither 
ward  His  labors  tend,  — 

These  may  sigh,  and  say  the  present  is  no  bet 
ter  than  the  past, 


no  Camp  Cogitations. 

These  may  call  us  savage  creatures,  who  appeal 

to  shot  and  shell ; 
But  the  truth  remains  triumphant,  and  our  armies 

gather  fast, 
And  who  meets  his  death  in  battle  be  assured 

he  meets  it  well. 

VI. 

Man  must  be  the  thing  he  is  ;  he  must  express 

himself  in  deeds  ; 
So  this  outward  war  expresses  only  that  which 

wars  within. 
Do   you,  planting   crimson   roses,  look   for   lilies 

from  their  seeds  ? 
No !  a    nation    without    war   must    be    a    nation 

without  sin. 
If  the  hilt  is  in  the  hand,  'tis  surely  there  the 

hilt  belongs  ; 
Man  and  man  are  aye  in  conflict  ;   call    it  war 

or  what  you  will  : 
All  the  world  is  full  of  lies,  —  of  old  and  thickly 

crusted  wrongs,  — 


Camp  Cogitations.  1 1 1 

And  when  blood  is  boiling  hotly,  there  is  always 
blood  to  spill. 

VII. 

See,  the  moon  has  risen  high  above  the  black 
and  naked  trees, 

Like  a  shield  of  burnished  silver  on  the  sky  of 
night  it  gleams  ; 

Comes  the  sighing  of  the  cedars  ever  sadly  on 
the  breeze  ; 

Comes  the  sound  of  falling  waters  from  the 
troubled  mountain  streams. 

Sternly  frown  the  crags  above  me  ;  darker  shad 
ows  round  me  fall, 

And  the  fires  of  the  encampment  flash  and 
smoulder  fitfully. . .  . 

If  the  foeman  break  our  slumber,  ere  the  morn 
ing  bugle-call, 

Is  the  victor's  goodly  laurel,  or  the  cypress 
wreath  for  me  ? 


JUNE    24,    i  859. 

T  SEE  the  surf  on  Sandy  Hook  ; 
•*•      I  see  the  bay  below  me  spread  ; 
And  here   I  lie,  with  pipe  and  book, 
And  the  blue  sky  overhead. 

A  quarter  of  a  century 

Has  passed,  and  still  I  live  to  say 
(Ah,  little  joy  it  gives  to  me  !) 

"  I  'm  twenty-five  to-day." 

It  is  not  very  long  to  live  ; 

At  twenty-five  we  're  scarcely  men  ; 
And  yet,  a  trifle  I  would  give 

If  't  were  threescore  and  ten. 

A  dozen  threads  among  my  hair 

Have  changed  from  chestnut-brown  to  snow 


June  24,  1859.  113 

But  if  they  paled  from  weight  of  care 
,  It  had  been  long  ago. 

About  my  eyes  and  on  my  brow 
A  few  faint  wrinkles  I  can  trace  ; 

Time  sets  his  signet  even  now 
Upon  my  form  and  face. 

And  yet  I  look  both  young  and  fresh  ; 

I  am  not  worn,  nor  pale,  nor  thin  ; 
Care's  scars  are  slight  'upon  the  flesh, 

But  deep  on  that  within. 

Ah  yes  !  as  seasons  onward  roll 

My  outward  form  seems  still  to  thrive  ; 

But,  looking  back,  'I  fear  my  soul 
Is  more  than  twenty-five. 


JUNE    24,     1864. 

T  'M  thirty  :  't  is  not  very  old  : 
•*•      Yet  never  younger  shall  I  be  ; 
Nor  do  I  care  my  youth  to  hold  : 
'Tis  not  so  very  dear  to  me. 

True,  I  have  lived  my  share  of  life, 
And  found  me  many  goodly  friends  ; 

But,  with  all  this,  enough  of  strife, 
And  toil,  and  loss,  to  make  amends. 

And  all  my  joys  have  wedded  been 
With  bitter  griefs  :  alas !   the  bell 

That  rings  to-day  the  marriage  in, 
To-morrow  tolls  the  funeral  knell. 

Yet,  though  my  brightest  hopes  have  paled, 
My  faith  in  future  good  holds  fast ; . 

My  strength  and  courage  have  not  failed, 
And  all  shall  finish  well  at  last! 


II. 
GAY. 


I  do  enjoy  this  bounteous,  beauteous  earth, 
And  dote  upon  a  jest." 

HOOD. 

"  He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er." 

TENNYSON. 


DON    LEON'S    BRIDE. 

A    TALE    OF    THE    CARNIVAL. 
I. 

1r  I  ^  WAS  —  let 's  see  —  ever  so  long  ago, 
-*-     There  lived  in  Madrid,  as  you  must  know, 
A  gay  cavalier 
Who  ne'er 
Knew  a  fear 

Of  the  doughtiest  kind  of  a  masculine  foe  ; 
And  who  loved  the  ladies 
Of  Seville  and  Cadiz 
As  well  as  he  did 
Those  of  Madrid,  — 

Indeed,  I  won't  swear  that  he  did  n't  hanker, 
At  times,  for  the  girls  of  Salamanca. 
Yet  still,  in  spite  of  his  love  and  care 
For  the  sparkling  eyes  and  the  raven  hair, 


n8  Don  Lcons  Bride. 

He  had  n't  the  luck 
(Or,  it  may  be,  the  pluck, 
Though    't  was    hardly   worth   daring  what   he 

did  n't  dare),  — 
In  short,  his  affections  he  never  had  carried  — 

In  having  what  young  women  call  "an  affair"  — 
So  far  as  to  think  much  about  getting  married. 
He  drank  and  he  fought 
Far  more  than  he  ought ; 
And  the  records  say 
That,  by  night  or  day, 
He  cut  up  such  shines,  and  in  such  a  way, 
That  the  daily  papers, 
Describing  his  capers, 
Declared  him  the  gayest  of  all  the  gay. 
So  much  for  my  hero  ;  I  'm  thinking,  though, 
That  you  might  like  to  know 
His  name  ; 
And  that  same 
I  '11  tell  you  at  once ; 
'T  was  Senor  Don  Leon  de  Bayaldefonse. 


Don  Lcoiis  Bride.  119 

ii. 

'T  is  carnival-time, 
And  many  a  chime 
From  silvery,  clear-toned  chapel-bells, 
Is  falling  in  sweet,  melodious  swells 

On  the  air  of  the  soft  Castilian  clime. 
The  stars  are  bright 
In  the  sky  of  night, 

And  the  moon  is  pouring  her  holy  light 
On  grove,  and  garden,  and  plain,  and  steep. 
The  wind,  as  it  blows, 
Sings  love  to  the  rose, 
And  kisses  the  orange-blooms  to  sleep. 
There  's  life  in  the  town, 
For,  up  and  down, 
A  hurrying,  countless,  jovial  throng 
Is  surging  along, 

And  the  gentle  pulses  of  music  beat 
In  time  to  the  tread  of  the  dancers'  feet  ; 
The  colored  lamps  swing  to  and  fro, 
Casting  a  myriad-tinted  glow 
On  the  masked  and  motley  crowd  below, 


I2O  Don  Leoris  Bride. 

Like  the  varied  hues  of  the  bow  of  hope, 
Or  those  of  a  mammoth  kaleidoscope. 

in. 

Don  Leon  is  there, 
With  vivacious  air, 

Costumed  and  masked  with  scrupulous  care,  — 
Dancing  and  singing, 
Love-glances  flinging, 
Stealing  sly  kisses 
From  indiscreet  misses, 
Whispering  to  them  in  a  corner  alone, 
Guessing  their  names  without  telling  his  own, 
Showering  praises 
On  them  and  their  graces, 
Lifting  their  masks  from  their  beautiful  faces, 
And  playing  such  pranks, 
With  all  classes  and  ranks, 
That  every  one  sees,  as  plain  as  can  be, 
Who  knows  .Seiior  Leon,  that  this  must  be  he  ! . . 
At  length  my  gay  hero  a  lady  espies, 
So  carefully  veiled  as  to  hide  e'en  her  eyes  ; 


Don  Lcoris  Bride.  121 

But  her  voice  is  so  sweet,  — 

Such  music  complete,  — 

Her  dress  is  so  rich,  yet  so  tasteful  and  neat, — 
So  bewitching  he  finds  her,  in  air  and  demeanor, 
He  's  almost  in  love,  ere  he  hardly  has  seen  her! 

IV. 

He  speaks  to  this  lady,  and  leads  her  aside,  — 
He  earnestly  begs  her  not  to  hide 
Her  beauties  rare, 
With  such  jealous  care  : 

"  For,"  says  he,  "  I  know  that  you  must  be  fair!" 
"  Good  sir,"  she  answers,  "  my  fate  has  said 
That  I  must  never,  till  I  am  wed, 
Remove  this  mask  ; 
So  do  not  ask, 

But  let  us  dance  as  we  are,  instead." 
Her  voice  was  low 
As  the  winds  that  blow 
O'er  the  hills  where  Aragon's  roses  grow, 
And  the  songs  that  heavenly  angels  sing 
No  sweeter,  purer,  or  clearer  ring. 


122  Don  Leoris  Bride. 

Don  Leon  turned  him  half  away,  — 
He  heard  that  voice,  and  naught  could  he  say, 
Although  he  'd  have  given 
His  hopes  of  heaven 

To  have  seen  her  face  for  a  moment,  even  ; 
But  to  save  all  Spain 
From  sorrow  and  pain, 
He  could  n't  have  asked  her  once  again. 
As  the  music  arose 
He  drew  her  close, 

And  off  they  danced,  on  the  tips  of  their  toes, 
With  many  a  fling, 
And  many  a  swing, 
Whirling,  twirling,  shifting,  swaying, 
Numberless  pretty  things  softly  saying, 
Darting  along 
Through  the  mazy  throng, 

Till  poor  Don  Leon  felt  that  he 

t 

Was  falling  a  victim  to  mystery, 
And  that  it  was  true  as  heaven  above 
That  he  was  heels-over-head  in  love  ! 


Don  Leans  Bride.  123 

v. 

The  waltz  was  done, 

With  its  frolic  and  fun, 

And  the  Don  to  plead  his  suit  begun. 
Again  he  led  the  lady  aside, 
To  a  lonely  part  of  the  courtyard  wide, 

And  begged  she  would 

Be  kind  and  good 

Enough,  to  take  the  veil  from  her  hood  ; 
But  no,  —  she  would  n't,  — 
She  said  she  could  n't ; 
"  Why  not  !  "  asked  he  ; 
"  Because,"  said  she, 
"  You  'd  certainly  be 
Scared  half  to  death  with  what  you  would  see." 

"  I  'm  not  afraid," 

Don  Leon  said, 

And  his  hand  on  the  veil  he  gently  laid  : 
"  Back  !  back  !  "  she  cried, 
Quite  terrified, 
"  My  face  I  must  forever  hide, 


124  Don  Leans  Bride. 

Until  I  am  wedded,  —  a  lawful  bride  !  " 
Alas  for  the  Don,  — 
His  heart  was  gone  ! 
'T  was  a  solemn  step  to  decide  upon, — 

A  serious  joke, 

If  the  truth  were  spoke, 

And  very  like  "  buying  a  pig  in  a  poke  "  ! 

But  he  'd  vowed  to  know,  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
How  the  face  of  the  charming  one  might  look, 
So  her  hand  he  took, 
And  swore  by  the  book 

That,  if  she  was  willing  his  heart  to  delight, 

They  would    go    and   be    married,    that   blessed 

night ! 

"  Ah  me  !  "  cried  the  lady,  "  at  last  I  have  found 
A  man  with  true-hearted  courage  crowned ! " 
And  she  fell  in  his  arms  with  a  joyful  bound. 

Then  off  they  went, 

On  a  wedding  bent, 

As  swift  as  a  bolt  from  a  cross-bow  sent, 

Or  (to  be  more  modern),  as  swift  as  the  bolt 
That 's  sent  from  the  pistols  of  Colonel  Colt,  — 


Don  Lcoiis  Bride.  125 

And  Father  Ignacio  lago  Malony 

Soon  showed 

Them  the  road 
To  matrimony. 

VI. 

Now  for  the  awful  mystery  ! 
The  Don  was  almost  dying  to  see 

The  face  of  his  wife, 

Yet  a  dreadful  strife 
Arose  in  his  breast. 
And  it  must  be  confessed 
That  he  felt  —  well,  terribly  nervous,  at  best ! 
In  a  room,  in  the  old  baronial  hall 
That  the  Bayaldefonses,  one  and  all, 
Had  owned  since  the  time  of  Adam's  fall, 
Stood  the  Don  and  his  bride, 
Side  by  side, 
Their  hearts  overflowing  with  love  and  pride. 

"  Come,  bare  thy  head," 

The  bridegroom  said  ; 
"  Fair  lady  mine, 


126  Don  Leans  Bride. 

Let  the  light  divine 

Beam  forth  from  those  beautiful  eyes  of  thine  ! 
O,  let  me  sip 
The  dew  of  thy  lip, 

Or  kiss  the  blush  from  thy  peachy  cheek  ! 
O,  haste,  sweet  wife,  nor  longer  seek 

To  keep  thy  glorious  charms  concealed, — 
Take  off  thy  veil,  —  let  them  be  revealed  !  " 
She  dropped  the  veil,  — 
The  Don  turned  pale, — 

His  joy  —  his  pleasure  —  his  hope  —  was  gone, — 
He  had  lost,  before  he  had  fairly  won  : 
O  gentle  reader,  pity  the  Don,  — 
What  do  you  suppose  he  looked  upon  ? . . . 
Only  a  SKELETON  ! 


THE    BIG    OYSTER. 

A    LEGEND    OF   RARITAN   BAY. 

'r  I  ^  WAS  a  hazy,  mazy,  lazy  day, 

-*-    And  the  good  smack  Emily  idly  lay 
Off  Staten  Island,  in  Raritan  Bay, 

With  her  canvas  loosely  flapping. 
The  sunshine  slept  on  the  briny  deep, 
Nor  wave  nor  zephyr  could  vigils  keep, 
The  oystermen  lay  on  the  deck  asleep, 
And  even  the  cap'n  was  napping. 

The  smack  went  drifting  down  the  tide  — 
The  waters  gurgling  along  her  side  — 
Down  where  the  bay  grows  vast  and  wide 

A  beautiful  sheet  of  water ; 
With  scarce  a  ripple  about  her  prow, 
The  oyster-smack  floated,  silent  and  slow, 


128  The  Big  Oyster. 

With  Keyport  far  on  her  starboard  bow, 
And  South  Amboy  on  her  quarter. 

But,  all  at  once,  a  grating  sound 

Made  the  cap'n  awake  and  glance  around  ; 

"  Hold  hard  ! "  cried  he,  "  we  Ve  run  aground, 

As  sure  as  all  tarnation !  " 

The  men  jumped  up,  and  grumbled,  and  swore  ; 
They  also  looked,  and  plainly  saw 
That  the  Emily  lay  two  miles  from  shore, 

At  the  smallest  calculation. 

Then,  gazing  over  the  side,  to  see 

What  kind  of  bottom  this  shoal  might  be, 

They  saw,  in  the  shadow  that  lay  to  the  lee, 

A  sight  that  filled  them  with  horror  ! 
The  water  was  clear,  and  beneath  it,  there, 
An  oyster  lay  in  its  slimy  lair, 
So  big,  that  to  tell  its  dimensions  fair 

Would  take  from  now  till  to-morrow. 

And  this  it  was  made  the  grating  sound  ; 
On  this  the  Emily  ran  aground  ; 


The  Big  Oyster.  129 

And  this  was  the  shoal  the  cap'n  found  — 

Alack  !  the  more  is  the  pity. 
For  straight  an  idea  entered  his  head : 
He  'd  drag  it  out  of  its  watery  bed, 
And  give  it  a  resting-place,  instead, 

In  some  saloon  in  the  city. 

So,  with  crow,  and  lever,  and  gaff,  and  sling, 
And  tongs,  and  tackle,  and  roller,  and  ring, 
They  made  a  mighty  effort  to  bring 

This  hermit  out  of  his  cloister. 
They  labored  earnestly,  day  and  night, 
Working  by  torch  and  lantern  light, 
Till  they  had  to  acknowledge  that,  do  what  they 
might 

They  never  could  budge  the  oyster  ! 

The  cap'n  fretted,  and  fumed,  and  fussed  — 
He  swore  he  'd  "  have  that  'yster,  or  bust ! " 
But,  for  all  his  oaths,  he  was  quite  nonplussed  ; 

So,  by  way  of  variation, 
He  sat  him  quietly  down,  for  a  while, 
9 


130  The  Big  Oyster. 

To  cool  his  anger  and  settle  his  bile, 
And  to  give  himself  up,  in  his  usual  style, 
To  a  season  of  meditation. 


Now,  the  cap'n  was  quite  a  wonderful  man  ; 
He  could  do  almost  anything  any  man  can, 
And  a  good  deal  more,  when  he  once  began 

To  act  from  a  clear  deduction. 
But  his  wonderful  power  —  his  greatest  pride  — 
The  feat  that  shadowed  all  else  beside  — 
The  talent  on  which  he  most  relied  — 

Was  his  awful  power  of  suction ! 

At  suction  he  never  had  known  defeat ! 
The  stoutest  suckers  had  given  in,  beat, 
When  he  sucked  up  a  quart  of  apple-jack,  neat, 

By  touching  his  lips  to  the  measure  ! 
He  'd  suck  an  oyster  out  of  its  shell, 
Suck  shrimps  or  lobsters  equally  well  ; 
Suck  cider,  till  inward  the  barrel-heads  fell  — 

And  seemed  to  find  it  a  pleasure  ! 


The  Big  Oyster.  131 

Well,  after  thinking  a  day  or  two, 
This  doughty  sucker  imagined  he  knew 
About  the  best  thing  he  could  possibly  do, 

To  secure  the  bivalvular  hermit. 
"  I  '11  bore  through  his  shell,  as  they  bore  for  coal, 
With  an  auger  fixed  on  the  end  of  a  pole, 
And   then,  through  a   tube,   I  '11    suck   him    out, 
whole  — 

A  neat  little  swallow,  I  term  it ! " 

The  very  next  day,  he  returned  to  the  place 
Where  his  failure  had  thrown  him  into  disgrace  ; 
And  there,  with  a  ghastly  grin  on  his  face, 

Began  his  submarine  boring. 
He  worked  a  week,  for  the  shell  was  tough, 
But  reached  the  interior  soon  enough 
For  the  oyster,  who  found  such  surgery  rough  — 

Such  grating,  and  scraping,  and  scoring ! 

The  shell-fish  started,  the  water  flew, 

The  cap'n  turned  decidedly  blue, 

But  thrust  his  auger  still  further  through, 


132  The  Big  Oyster. 

To  quiet  the  wounded  creature. 
Alas !  I  fear  that  my  tale  grows  sad, 
The  oyster  naturally  felt  quite  bad, 
And  ended  by  getting  excessively  mad, 

In  spite  of  its  peaceful  nature. 

It  arose,  and,  turning  itself  on  edge, 

Exposed  a  ponderous  shelly  wedge, 

All  covered  with  slime,  and  seaweed,  and  sedge 

A  conchological  wonder  ! 
This  wedge  flew  open,  as  quick  as  a  flash, 
Into  two  great  jaws,  with  a  mighty  splash  ; 
One  scraunching,  crunching,  crackling  crash - 

And  the  smack  was  gone  to  thunder  ! 


THE   DRINKING   OF  THE  APPLE-JACK. 

[NOT   BY   BRYANT.] 

COME,  let  us  drink  the  apple-jack  ! 
Cut  the  tough  lemon  with  the  blade  ; 
Hot  let  the  water  then  be  made  ; 
There  gently  pour  the  liquor  ;   there 
Sift  the  white  sugar  in  with  care, 

And  mix  them  all  as  gingerly 
As  poets  mingle  rhythmic  feet 
To  print  in  some  aesthetic  sheet : 
So  mix  we  the  apple-jack. 

What  drink  we  in  the  apple-jack  ? 
Buds,  which  the  sprees  of  nights  and  days 
Shall  swell  to  blossoms  all  ablaze  ; 
Spots,  where  the  rash,  a  crimson  guest, 
Shall  put  our  good  looks  to  the  test. 


134          The  Drinking  of  the  Apple-jack. 

We  drink,  from  the  distillery, 
A  balm  for  each  ill-omened  hour, 
A  pleasant  alcoholic  shower, 

When  we  drink  the  apple-jack. 


What  drink  we  in  the  apple-jack? 
Sweets,  from  that  Jersey  farm,  of  Spring's, 
That  load  the  wagons,  carts,  and  things, 
When  from  the  orchard-row  he  pours 
His  fruit  to  the  distillery  doors  ; 

And  toddy-blossoms,  red  that  be. 
Drinks  for  the  sick  man's  silent  room, 
For  the  bon  vivant  rosy  bloom, 

We  brew,  with  the  apple-jack. 

What  drink  we  in  the  apple-jack  ? 
Heads  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
To  ache  like  fun  in  the  August  noon, 
And  droop  as  sober  folks  come  by 
Under  the  blue  September  sky  ; 
And  fellows,  wild  with  noisy  glee, 


The  Drinking  of  the  Apple-jack.          135 

Shall  breathe  strong  fragrance  as  they  pass, 
And  tumble  on  the  tufted  grass  — 
The  effect  of  the  apple-jack. 


And  when  above  this  apple-jack 
The  silver  spoons  are  quivering  bright, 
And  songs  go  howling  through  the  night, 
We,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with    mirth, 
Shall  quaff  our  punch  by  cottage-hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Beside  the  red  blood  of  the  grape, 
A  bottle  of  a  different  shape  — 

The  bottle  of  the  apple-jack. 

The  glory  of  this  apple-jack 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  drink  till  all  is  blue 
The  apple-jack  of  Sandynew  ; 

And  they  who  roam  upon  the  sea 
Shall  mourn  the  past  but  happy  day 


136          The  Drinking  of  the  Apple-jack. 

When  grog  made  labor  seem  like  play, 
The  day  of  the  apple-jack. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-jack 
A  mellower  taste,  a  warmer  bloom, 
A  potency  'gainst  mopes  and  gloom, 
And  make  it,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
A  thing  for  punch  of  wondrous  power. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  grow  no  better  where  we  lie, 
While  summer's  songs  and  autumn's  sigh 

Shall  ripen  the  apple-jack. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-jack  ! 
O,  when  its  aged  barrels  grow 
Light,  as  the  rare  old  juice  runs  low, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  us  with  a  Maine-law  bill  ? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  todless  toper's  tears, 
If  this  should  come,  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  apple-jack  ? 


The  Drinking  of  the  Apple-jack.          137 

"Who  barreled  this  old  apple-jaek  ?  " 

The  bibbers  of  that  distant  day 

Thus  to  some  aged  Sport  shall  say  ; 

And,  fingering  his  goblet's  stem, 

The  gray-haired  sage  shall  answer  them  : 

"A  poet  of  Jersey  fame  was  he, 
Born  in  the  heavy  drinking  times  ; 
'T  is  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 

On  drinking  the  apple-jack  !  " 


SINGLE    AND    DOUBLE. 

A    CHRISTMAS   JINGLE. 


T     AST  Christmas,  I  remember, 
-* — '     I  sat  beside  the  hearth, 
And  watched  each  glowing  ember 

To  tiny  flames  give  birth, 
While  the  snow-flakes  of  December 

Were  whitening  the  earth. 

Rapt  close  in  meditation, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing, 

The  idle   brain's   creation 
And  vague  imagining, 

I  had  a  visitation 

Perhaps  worth  mentioning. 


Single  and  Double.  139 

My  pipe   its  clouds  emitted 

In  wreaths  of  azure  hue, 
Through  which  strange  visions  flitted, 

As  they  are  wont  to  do 
When  one  is  sombre-witted 

And  feels  a  little  blue. 

Strange  vision  !  girls  with  faces 

Of  loveliest  blush  and  smile, 
Whose  forms  wore  all  the  graces 

That  strengthen  woman's  wile, 
When  clothed  in  silks  and  laces 

Cut  in  the  latest  style. 

Then  rare,  melodious  noises, — 

Some  seraphic  trombone, — 
Came  mingling  with  sweet  voices 

Blent  in  a  tender  tone, 
Saying,  —  "When  all   the  Earth  rejoices, 

Why  shouldst  thou  be  here  alone?" 

I  felt  that  I  was  weary 
Upon  that  Christmas  day ; 


140  Single  and  Double. 

That  I  alone  was  dreary 
While  others  all  were  gay 

With   Christmas  feasting  cheery,  - 
So  I  had  n't  much  to   say. 

And  again  they  put  the  query, 
Why  I  should  lonely  be 

While  other  folks  were  merry, 
And  said  they  could  n't  see 

Why  I  should  be  so  very 
Fond  of  my  misanthropy. 

While  thus  these   figures  fluttered 
My  lonely  hearthstone  o'er, 

And   still  these  voices   uttered 
Their  question  as  before, 

I,  half  unconscious,  muttered 
"  I  '11  be  alone  no  more !  " 

"  Away  with  melancholy  ! 

I  '11  seek  me  out  a  bride, 
And  when   the  berried  holly 

Glows  red  at  Christmas-tide, 


Single  and  Double.  141 

I  '11  know  of  no  such  folly 
As  a  lonely  fireside  !  " 

Then  fled  the  fairy  vision! 

Their  object  was  attained  ; 
They  had  fulfilled  their  mission, 

Their  ultimatum   gained  : 
They  fled,  but  my  decision 

Quite  palpably  remained. 


II. 

Again  the  Christmas  season 
Rolls  round  as  seasons  roll ; 

The  feast  is  more  than  reason, 
The  flow  is  more  than  soul, 

And  tyrant  Care,  by  treason, 
Is  drowned  in  many  a  bowl. 

Within  my  pleasant  chamber 
I  sit  and  muse  once  more, 


142  Single  and  Double. 

While  from  the  hearth  each  ember 
Gleams  red  across  the  floor 

And  snow-flakes  of  December 
Lie  white  on  hill  and  shore. 

Again   I   sit,  but  never 

As  once  I  used  to  sit, 
By  phantoms  haunted  ever  — 

Vague  forms  that  fade  and  flit, 
Enough  to  make  a  clever 

Fellow  have  a  stupid  fit. 

Ah  no !    my  resolution 

Has  straightly  been  put  through, 
And  another  institution 

Has  crept  my  life  into. 
I  have  declared  for  "  Fusion," 

And  my  ally  has  proved  true  ! 

My  Ally,  —  that  's  my  Alice . . . 

A  vision  far  more  dear 
Than   those  that  rose  in  malice, 

From  the  pungent   Latakia 


Single  and  Double.  143 

That  burned  within  the  chalice 
Of  my  meerschaum  pipe,  last  year. 

No  more  in  lonely  musing 
I  hear  the  slow  hours  chime  ; 

No  more  my  lot  abusing 
In  sentimental   rhyme  ; 

No  more   I  'm  caught  refusing 
To  have  a  jolly  time ! 

But,  free  from  blues  and   bother, 

Quite  cosily  at  ease, 
I   sit  by  Baby's  mother 

With  Baby  on  my  knees, 
And  look  from  one  to  t'  other 

As  proudly  as  you  please  ! 

So  you,  who  do  as  I  did 

On   Christmas-days  gone  by, 
Ere  She  and  I  decided 

Our  forces  to  ally, 
If  lonely  you  Ve  abided, 

This  other  method  try ! 


144  Single  and  Double. 

Old  bachelors  grow  spiteful, 
As  I  erst-while  have  known. 

Heart-loneliness    is  frightful, 
And  in  the  Book  't  is  shown 

That  it  is  n't  good  or  rightful 
For  man  to  be  alone. 

I  hear  my  Alice  singing 

As  the  Christmas  snow-flakes  fall, 
And  the  Christmas-bells  are  ringing: 

o      o 

From  every  belfry  tall, 
This  Christmas  burthen  bringing, 

O          O* 

"  God  bless  us,  one  and  all !  " 


THE   BALLAD   OF   FISTIANA 

(AFTER  TENNYSON.) 


M 


Y  form  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Fistiana. 
There  is  no  fame  for  me  below, 

Fistiana. 

My  fame  has  gone,  like   melted   snow, 
Though  I  can  hit  a  heavy  blow, 

Fistiana. 
Alone   I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Fistiana. 

Once,  my  fame  was  widely  growing, 

Fistiana  ; 
Day  and  night  my  friends  were  crowing, 

Fistiana ; 
I  was  blowing,  wine  was  flowing, 


10 


146  The  Ballad  of  Fistiana. 

When  I  was  to  battle  going, 

Fistiana. 
But,  alas  !    't  was  naught  but  blowing, 

Fistiana. 

In  the  ring,  till  almost  night, 

Fistiana, 
I  stood  proudly  up  in  fight, 

Fistiana. 

Although  the  blood  bedimmed  my  sight, 
With  stars  that  glimmered  swift  and  bright, 

Fistiana, 
And  left  my  eyes  in  shocking  plight, 

Fistiana. 

The  umpire  stood  against  the  wall, 

Fistiana  ; 
He  watched  my  fist  among  them  all, 

Fistiana ; 

He  saw  me  fight ;    I  heard  him  call : 
My  foeman  was  both  strong  and  tall, 

Fistiana : 


The  Ballad  of  Fistiana.  147 

He  pressed  me  close  against  the  wall, 
Fistiana. 

My  heavy  counter  went  aside, 

Fistiana, — 
The  false,  false  counter  went  aside, 

Fistiana,  — 

The  cursed  counter  glanced  aside ; 
I  missed  his  nob  :    my  blow  was  wide, 

Fistiana,  — 
My  blow  was  very  wild  and  wide, 

Fistiana ! 

O,  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Fistiana ! 
Loud  rang  my  backers'  heavy  bass, 

Fistiana. 

O,  deathful  blows  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepened  in  its  place, 

Fistiana  ; 
But  I   went  down  upon  my  face, 

Fistiana. 


148  The  Ballad  of  Fistiana. 

They  should  have  sponged  me  where  I  lay, 

Fistiana ; 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Fistiana  ? 

How  should  I  look,  the  second  day  ? 
They  might  have  left  me  where   I  lay, 

Fistiana  : 
Bruised,  mauled,  and  pounded  into  clay, 

Fistiana. 

O  feeble  nose !   why  didst  thou  break, 
Fistiana  ?  f 

0  me  !    so  pale  and  limp  and  weak, 

Fistiana : 

1  took  my  drink,  but  could  not   speak, 
With  such  a  jaw  and  lip  and  cheek, 

Fistiana, 

Where  fists  had  played  at  hide-and-seek, 
Fistiana. 

They  cried  aloud  ;    I  heard  their  cries, 
Fistiana  : 


The  Ballad  of  Fistiana.  149 

Their  plaudits  rent  the  very  skies, 

Fistiana  ; 

I  felt  the  tears  and  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  into  my  eyes, 

Fistiana. 
Who  says  there  's  fun  in  fighting,  lies, 

Fistiana. 

0  cursed  hand  !     O  cursed  blow  ! 

Fistiana ! 
Unhappy  me,  by  it  laid  low, 

Fistiana ! 
All  night  my  "  claret "  seemed  to  flow ; 

1  sat  alone,  in  utter  woe, 

Fistiana : 

To  fight  again  I  '11  never  go, 
Fistiana. 


THE   MODERN   MITHRIDATES. 

T  T  O  !   bring  my  breakfast !    give  to  me 
•*•  -••      Bread  that  is  snowy  and  light  of  weight, 
Of  alum  and  bone-dust  let  it  be, 

Chalk,  and  ammonia's  carbonate  : 
Sulphates  of  zinc  and  copper  too, 

Plaster  of  Paris,  finely  ground, 
Will  make  it  evenly  white,  clear  through, 

With  the  outside  nicely  browned. 

Give  me  butter  to  eat  with  the  bread, — 

Colored  with  saffron  and  turmeric, 
Or  orpiment,  richer  in  tint  't  is  said  ; 

Let  lard  and  sheep's  brains  make  it  thick. 
Give  me  tea  of  a  clear  green  hue, 

Made  of  soapstone,  and  willow-leaves, 
Arsenite  of  copper  and  Prussian  blue,  — 

Their  flavor  the  palate  deceives. 


The  Modern  Mithridates.  1 5  I 

Bring  sugar,  and  sweeten  the  potion  well,  — 

Sugar  of  lead,  and  iron,  and  sand, 
Sweet  as  honey  of  Hydromel, 

Or  the  pressure  of  Mithridates'   hand  ! 
Though  maybe  coffee  would  clear  my  head 

Better  than   such  a  cup  of  tea,  — 
Coffee  of  ochre,  Venetian  red, 

And  the  potent  chicory. 

Then,  with  my  chop,  let  pickles  green 

Cool  my  tongue  with  flavorous  bliss  ; 
Steeped  and   soaked,  they  must  have  been, 

In  salts  of  copper  and  verdigris : 
Most  inviting  to  me  they  are 

When  full  of  the  pungent  taste  I   find 
In   sulphuric  acid  vinegar,  — 

A  condiment  just  to  my  mind. 

I  la!    you  start!   you  think  that  I, 

Being  a  man  of  mortal  clay, 
After  my  meal  will  surely  die, 

For  these  are  deadly  poisons,  you  say : 


152  The  Modern  Mithridates. 

Poisons  ?    yes  !    yet  one  and  all 

Are  found  on  every  grocer's  shelves  ; 

Our  bills  of  mortality  are  not  small, 
But  how  can  we  help  ourselves  ? 


THE   CRUISE   OF   THE   FLORA 

A   NAUTICAL   BALLAD. 

T    AST  week  I  went  to  Barnegat; 
•* — '     All  on  a  shooting  spree  ; 
And   I   will  take  and  eat  my  hat 
If  't  was  not  jollity. 

The  piping  winds  across  the  sky 
Full  many  a  cloud  did  blow, 

The  while  we  piped,  my  friends  and  I, 
A  jollier  cloud  below. 

Though  Barnegat  boasts  no  great  man 
Who  paints,  or  speaks,  or  writes, 

Whoever  threads  her  channel  can 
Descry  some  shining  Lights. 


154  The  Cruise  of  the  Flora. 

And  there  we  lay  three  days,   I  ween, 
Nor  moved  with  sails  or  oars  ; 

The  only  game  that  we  had  seen 
Was  euchre,  or  all-fours. 

But  when  the  sun,  one  morning,  shone, 

Dispelling  cold  and  cough, 
Good  gracious  !    how  we  all  went  on, 

And  how  our  guns  went  off! 

The  ducks  and  geese  came  flying  round, 
And  though  they  were  no  fools, 

A  number  fell  upon  the  ground, 
'T  was  said,  between  two  stools. 

In  Manahawkin   Swamp,  we  heard, 

That  one,  with  gun  or  snare 
Might  capture  bear  ;    but  some  averred 

The  swamp  was  bare  of  bear. 

So  hunting  bear  we  did  not  go, 
Our   sport   was  quantum  suff ; 


The  Cruise  of  the  Flora.  155 

And  several  tore  their  trousers  so, 
They  had  bare-skin  enough. 

We  sailed  'twixt  island-shores  of  grass  : 

The  channel  there  is  shoal : 
And  as  we  bowled  along  the  pass, 

We  passed  along  the  bowl. 

A  wreck  on  shore  outlived  the  gale 

But  sailors  none  were  here, 
So  when  they  wanted  to  make  sale 

They  got  an  auctioneer. 

(These  'long-shore  sales,  as  I  suspect, 

Are  humbug  and  a  curse. 
The  ships  by  breakers  may  be  wrecked 

But  brokers  are  far  worse.) 

For  Tuckerton  our  sails  we  set, 
Some  stores  and  things  to  buy  ; 

And  though  we  all  got  very  wet,    . 
We  all  felt  very  dry. 


156  The  Cruise  of  the  Flora. 

And  if  you  want  to  take  us  down . . . 

Our  looks,  and  what  we  wore . . . 
The  people  of  that  little  town 

Can  tell  you  something  more. 

Our  week  was  up  ;   we  headed  toward 

Egg  Harbor's  bar  of  foam  ; 
We  were  not  free  to  go  abroad, 

So  we  were  bound  for  home. 

At  Little  Egg  .  .  .  the  pass,  you  know  .  .  . 

The  wind  was  blowing  free ; 
We  doubted  if  't  was  safe  to  go, 

But  we  went  out  to  sea. 

'T  was  growing  cold,  and  dark,  and  late, 
We  saw  nor  moon  nor  star  ; 

Our  skipper  steered  for  one  thing  straight, 
The  buoy  behind  the  bar. 

All  night  our  northward  course  we  lay, 
Till  off  the  first  Hook  light, 


TJie  Cruise  of  the  Flora.  1 5  7 

Where,  as  we  hankered  for  the  day, 
We  anchored  for  the  night. 

Next  morn  we  rose  betimes,  and  saw 

The  billows  wash  and  comb, 
While  we  went  dirty  as  before, 

Until  we  reached  our  home. 

Thus  closed  our  trip  to  Barnegat, 

'T  was  finished  up  and  done  ; 
And  I  will  take  and  eat  my  hat 

If  't  was  n't  jolly  fun. 


THE    CORONER'S    JURYMAN. 


I  KNOW  many  things  that  are  stupid, — 
A  donkey,  a  new-landed  foreigner, 
A  young  fellow  bothered  by  Cupid, 

And  —  the  Juryman  called  by  a  Coroner ! 


This  last  is  the  worst,  to  my  thinking; 

For,  though  he  looks  stately  and  dignified, 
While  solemnly,  owlishly  blinking, 

He  forgets  what  the  evidence  signified. 

He  learns  there  has  been  a  "  Disaster  "  ; 

Views  the  scene  with  much  nausea  and  dizziness  ; 
But  whether  the  man  or  the  master 

Is  to  blame  —  why,  't  is  none  of  his  business. 

He  measures  the  ground  with  much  caution, 
Gets  all  topographical  distances, 


The  Coroners  Juryman.  159 

Talks  wisely  of  traction  and  torsion, 
Of  motors,  concussions,  resistances. 

And  sometimes  he  goes  to  much  trouble, 

With  copious  wind  and  verbosity, 
To  show  if  the  track  had  been  double, 

'T  would  n't  lessen  the  rate  of  velocity ! 

So,  having  considered  the  matter, 

And  deduced  all  the  facts  from  the  premises, 
He  decides,  after  viewing  the  latter, 

It  is  Destiny,  —  otherwise,  Nemesis. 

An  accident 's  quickly  forgotten  ; 

A  juryman's  mercy  's  delectable  ; 
If  the  rails  and  the  ties  are  all  rotten, 

The  Directors  are  very  respectable. 

Some  blame  may  be  thrown  on  a  stoker, 
If  friendless,  or  killed,  or  non-resident  ; 

But  your  Juryman  —  artful  old  joker  !  — 
Knows  more  than  to  censure  a  President ! 


160  The  Coroners  Juryman. 

Meanwhile,  we  must  rein  in  our  fury  ; 

He  thinks  us  but  carpers'  and  cavillers  ; 
When  the  Roads  have  full  leave,  from  the  Jury, 

To  play  fatal  Tricks  upon  Travellers. 

Thus  't  will  be,  till  some  shrewd  Superintendent 

Is  placed,  with  avenging  severity, 
On  a  sour  apple-tree  swinging  pendent, 

To  serve  as  a  hint  to  posterity. 


THE   DANGERS   OF   BROADWAY. 


BY   A   PROMENADER. 


\  X  7ITH    a  slam,  and  a  smash,  and  a  rattling 
*  *  crash, 

Come  the  sticks, 
And  the  bricks, 
Bits  of  glass,  blind,  and  sash, 
That  the  laborers  rash 
Tumble  down,  all  the  day, 

From  the  houses  now  being  destroyed  in  Broadway. 
Strange  odors  and  musty, 
The  air  sharp  and  dusty 
With  lime  and  with  sand, 
That  no  one  can  stand, 
Make  the  street  quite  impassable, 
The  people  irascible, 
ii 


1 62  The  Dangers  of  Broadway. 

Till  every  one  cries, 

As  he  trembling  goes, 
With  the  sight  of  his  eyes 

And  the  scent  of  his  nose 
Quite  stopped  —  or  at  least,  much  diminished, 
"  Gracious  !  when  will  this  city  be  finished  !  " 

ii. 

Mr.  Smith  builds  a  store  —  may  be  more  — 
In  the  year  '53. 
But,  in  '58,  he 
Finds  that,  which  he  calls  "  the  old  (!)  building," 

a  bore, 

A  disgrace  to  the  town  — 
So  of  course  it  comes  down, 
And  another,  much  stronger, 
Goes  up  in  its  place, 
With  a  handsomer  face, 

To  last  five  years  more,  or  perhaps  a  year  longer. 
Meanwhile  Mr.  Brown 

Pulls  down 
His  building,  near  by, 


The  Dangers  of  Broadway.  163 

And  the  dust  that  he  makes 
Causes  all  sorts  of  aches  ; 
For,  like  his  "  improvements,"  't  is  all  in  one's  eye  ! 

in. 

But  the  dust's  not  the  worst  of  this  ruin  accurst ; 
'Tis  the  danger, 
Each  stranger 

(And  citizen  too)  is  always*  put  through, 
In  walking  amid  such  a  hullabaloo. 

E'en  a  temperance  man  — 

Let  him  do  all  he  can  — 
Is  likely  to  get  (and  be  well  off  at  that) 
An  exceedingly  heavy  great  brick  in  his  hat. 

Powdered  with  mortar, 

Sprinkled  with  water, 

Smoked,  soaked, 

Poked,  choked, 

Turned  into  the  street, 

By  walks  incomplete, 

Till  the  pleasures  of  Broadway  are  sadly  diminished, 
And  all  say,  "O  gracious !  when  will  it  be  finished  ? " 


THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY   IN   TOWN. 

[Being  the  Lament  of  a  Poet  who  couldn't  get  away.  The 
reader  will  observe  that  each  verse  is  concluded  by  an  explosive 
refrain,  from  the  firearms  without.] 

I    REALLY  don't  know  what  to  do 
('T  was  thus  a  Poet  sang) 
Amid  this  dreadful  hubaboo 
That  drives  me  crazy  — 

(Bang!} 

I  did  not  wish  in  town  to  stay  ; 

It  cost  me  quite  a  pang 
To  find  I  couldn't  get  away, 

But  fate  is  cruel  — 

(Bang!) 

The  streets  are  filled  with  smoke  and  noise, 
And  everywhere  a  gang 


The  Fourth  of  July  in   Town.  165 

Of  ruffian  men  and  rowdy  boys 
Are  firing  pistols  — 

(Bang!) 

Ah!  out  of  town  the  air  is  sweet, 

Where  nodding  roses  hang 
Above  the  brook  that  laves  their  feet, 

But  here  't  is  horrid  — 

(Bang!) 

In  every  public  place  and  hall 

The  orators  harangue, 
Amid  a  dun  and  dusky  pall 

Of  smoke  and  sulphur  — 

(Bang!) 

Whatever  patriots  may  say, 
With  all  their  buncombe  slang, 

In  town,  this  Independence   Day 
Is  but  a  nuisance  — 

(Bang!) 


1 66  The  Fourth  of  July  in  Town. 

'T  was  well  enough,  when  into  birth 

Our  Independence  sprang; 
But  this  !  't  is  Tophet  here  on  earth  — 

(Crack  !     crash  !  !     whang  !  !  ! 
clang  !  !  !  !  slam-bang!  !  !  !  /) 


THE   BROWN   STONE  WHAT-IS-IT. 

A   CIVIC   BALLAD,    WITH   A  CHORUS   ONTO   IT. 

A  SCULPTOR  once  lived  here  in  New  York 
Whose  various  statues  made  some  talk ; 
But  he,  so  all  the  connoisseurs  say, 
Was  quite  on  the  caricatural  lay  ; 
With  his  carica-tural,  lural,  lural, 

Caricatural  lay. 

His  name  was  T ,  a  Scot  was  he 

Who  hoped  from  critiques  to  go  scot  free  ; 
And  one  great  work  from  this  sculptor's  hands 
In   a  sweetly  rural  village  stands, 
With  its  sweetly  rural,  lural,  lural, 

Sweetly  rural  lay. 

One  day,  when  his  cash  was  almost  gone, 
Said  he,  "  I  '11  sculpture  Washington  ! 


1 68  The  Brown  Stone    What-is-it. 

Immortal  in  brown-stone  shall  he  be, 
With  an  architectural  plinth,  you  see, 
An  architec-tural,  lural,  lural, 

Architectural  lay. 

He  got  the  stone  and  he  pecked  away . . . 

I  think  it  took  him  at  least  a  day . . . 

Then  he  called  some  friends,  whom  he  had  found 

In  the  agricultural  districts  round  ; 

With  their  agricul-tural,  lural,  lural, 

Agricultural  lay. 

'T  is  hard  to  believe  the  tradition  true  ; 
But  they  said  't  was  fine,  and  he  thought  so,  too  ! 
'Twas  the  sorriest  figure,  bald  and  bare, 
With  a  mournful  and  sepultural  air ; 
A  sepul-tural,  lural,   lural, 

Sepul-tural  lay. 

The  Artist  was  proud ...  he  held  up  his  head  . . 
"  T  is  the  flower  of  all  my  works ! "  he  said. 


The  Brown  Stone    Wkat-is-it.  169 

"  The  flower  of  all !  "...  well  pleased  was  he 
With  his  horticultural  simile  ; 
His  horticul-tural,  lural,  lural, 

Horticul-tural  lay. 

Long  in  the  Park  the  statue  stood, 

And  the  general  verdict  was,  "  'T  ain't  good  !  " 

Though  few  knew  what  't  was  meant  to  express, 

Save  by  a  sort  of  conjectural  guess  ; 

A  conjec-tural,  lural,  lural, 

Conjec-tural  lay. 

But  the  City  Fathers  are  lovers  of  Art, 
And  with  this  statue  they  could  not  part  ; 
They  said  in  the  Park  it  should  remain 
Throughout  their  civic  and  mural  reign, 
Their  civic  and  mural,  lural,  lural, 

Civic  and  mural  lay. 

So,  for  this  brown-stone  what-is-it  to  pay 
They  gave  two  thousand  dollars  away, 


170  The  Brown  Stone   What-is-it. 

And  tax-payers  groan,  both  near  and  far, 
"  What  expenditural  fellows  these  are  ! " 
Expendi-tural,  lural,  lural, 

Expendi-tural  lay. 

So  now  the  Thing  belongs  to  the  town . . . 

Or  will,  when  the  money  has  been  paid  down  ; 

And  passing  the  Park,  we  note,  each  day, 

T 's  strength  in  the  caricatural  way  ! 

In  the  carica-tural,  lural,  lural, 

Carica-tural  lay. 


THE   SHARPSHOOTER'S   LOVE. 

[IN  TIME  OF  WAR.] 

r  I  ^HE  finest  friend  I  ever  knew, 

•*-       And  one  with  whom  I  dare  not  trifle ; 
Who  in  all  danger  sees  me  through, 
Whose  aim  is  ever  good  and   true, 
Is  my  sweet  Minie  Rifle. 

She  gently  rests  upon  my  arm, 

Is  always  ready,  always  willing ; 
And  though,  in  general,  somewhat  calm, 
Wakes  up,  upon  the  first  alarm, 
To  show  she  can  be  killing. 

And  she  is  very  fair  to  see, 

The  most  fastidious  fancy  suiting  ; 
Her  Locks  are  bright  as  they  can  be, 
And  that  her  Sight  is  good,  to  me 
Is  just  as  sure  as  shooting. 


172  The  Sharpshooters  Love. 

Though  used  to  many  a  fiery  spark, 

She  's  never  careless  in  her  pleasure ; 
She  always  aims  to  hit  the  mark, 
And  when  her  voice  the  Southrons  hark, 
They  find  she  's  no  Secesher. 

The  heaviest  Load  seems  not  to  weigh 
Upon  her  more  than  't  were  a  trifle  ; 
She  's  highly  polished  :    and  I  'd  pray, 
Were  I  bereft  of  friends  this  day, 
O,  leave  me  Minie  Rifle ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  STONE-HULK 

[IN   TIME   OF   WAR.] 

TIME  was  I  roved  the  Northern  seas, 
To  chase  the  blubbering  whale, 
But  now  I  lie  in  dreamy  ease 
To  rest  my  poor  old  ribs  and  knees. 
A  Cell,  but  not  a  Sail. 

A  number  of  us  calmly  lie,  — 

J.  D.  is  not  alone,  — 
And  barristers  who  southward  hie 
Can  comment,  passing  Charleston  by, 

Upon  the  works  of  Stone. 

Though  old,  I  still  am  stanch  and  stout ; 

A  store  of  Rocks  have  I ; 
My  comrades  and  myself,  no  doubt, 
With  such  a  lot  of  bars  about, 

Will  ne'er  get  high  and  dry. 


The  Song  of  the  Stone-Hulk. 

The  sharks,  the   porgies,  and  the  whales 

Swim  by  with  look  intent, 
And  ask  if,  when  I  bent  my  sails 
To  lead  the  life  this  job  entails, 

I  followed  out  that  bent. 

Though  Davis,  spite  of  shame  and  sin, 
Controls  the  South,  't  is  true, 

To  Lincoln  I  my  faith  give  in ... 

As  I  a  three-master  have  been 
Two  masters  will  not  do. 

When  cannon  against  Sumter's  wall 

Shall  roar  in  warlike  sort, 
I  '11  think,  as  howl  the  shot  and  ball 
From  frigates  trim  and  taut  and  tall, 

'T  is  their,  but  not  my,  forte. 

So  here  in  Charleston  Bay  I  He, 

A  part  of  war's  great  game  ; 
To  pass  me  let  no  skipper  try, 
For  though  he  reck  but  little,  I 
Shall  wreck  him  all  the  same  ! 


THE   NEW   NIMROD. 

[Bv  MCARONE.] 

T  N  tangles  deep  of  vine  and  thorn, 
•*•    And  over  uplands  rough  and  furzy, 
I  took  a  dog  and  gun,  one  morn, 
And  went  to  slay  the  game  of  Jersey. 

I  borrowed  Charly  Bucklin's  boots 
(He  's  surely  had  a  smaller  size  on), 

And  said,  '-'  Here  comes  a  man  who  shoots 
Whatever  game  he  claps  his  eyes  on  ! 

"  Ye  quails,  hide  quick  among  the  sheaves  ; 

Ye  partridges,  leave  off  your  drumming ; 
Ye  rabbits,  take  your  sudden  leaves, — 

A  mighty  hunter  now  is  coming  !  " 


176  The  New  Nimrod. 

Full  many  a  mile  I  trudged,  that  day, 
Beset  by  thorn  and  spur  and  splinter  ; 

One  half  the  birds  had  flown  away, 
The  other  half  were  killed  last  winter. 

Along  the  road  a  peasant  came, 

And  cried,  in  accents  light  and  airy, 

"  Ho  !  sportsman,  what 's  your  little  game  ?  " 
I  only  said,  with  sorrow,  "  Nary !  " 

The  rain  came  down  without  a  pause, 
The  raging  wind  roared  loud  and  louder, 

And  all  my  consolation  was  : 

"  I  Ve  saved  a  deal  of  shot  and  powder  !  " 

So  now  I  '11  put  all  guns  away, 
Save  in  defence  of  starry  bunting, 

Remembering  that  unhappy  day 

When  I  went  down  to  Jersey,  hunting. 

Yet  'tis  not  I  who  am  to  blame 
For  having  by  misfortune  gotten 


The  New  Nimrod.  177 

Into  a  place  where  was  no  game 

To  shoot,  be  snooted,  shot,  or  shotten. 

Ah,  no !  't  was  but  that  Destiny 

To  me  was  always  somewhat  tricksy  ; 

And  when  again  you  hear  of  me, 

'T  will  be,  I  hope,  from  down  in  Dixie. 

12 


TWO    SENSIBLE    SERENADES 

I. 

I    SING  beneath  your  lattice,  Love, 
A  song  of  great  regard  for  you  : 
The  moon  is  getting  rather  high  ; 
My  voice  is,  too. 


The  lakelet  in  deep  shadow  lies, 
Where  frogs  make  much  hullabaloo ; 
I  think  they  sing  a  trifle  hoarse, 
And,  Love,  me  too. 


The  blossoms  on  the  pumpkin-vine 
Are  weeping  diamond  tears  of  dew  ; 
'T  is  warm  :  the  flowers  are  wilting  fast  ; 
My  linen  too. 


Two  Sensible  Serenades.  179 

All  motionless  the  cedars  stand, 
With  silent  moonbeams  slanting  through  ; 
The  very  air  is  drowsy,  Love, 
And  I  am  too. 

O,  could  I  soar  on  loving  wings, 
And  at  your  window  gently  woo  ! 
But  then  your  lattice  you  would  bolt  — 
So 'I '11  bolt  too. 

And  now  I  Ve  done  my  serenade, 
Farewell  !  my  best  regards  to  you  ; 
I  '11  close  with  one  (French)  word  for  all, 
And  that  is  tout. 


II. 

THE  surf  upon  the  distant  shore  is  breaking  ; 

Bright  tears  of  dew  the  roses  seem  to  weep  ; 
But  you  are  prejudiced  against  awaking, 

So  I  '11  sing  small,  and  let  you  have  your  sleep ! 
Sleep,  lady,  sleep  ! 


180  Two  Sensible  Serenades. 

You  shall  not  chide  me  for  this  song,  love,  shall 

you  ? 

I  take  great  pains  my  voice  subdued  to  keep, 
For  well  I  understand  the  lofty  value 

All  sane  folks  set  upon  a  wholesome  sleep. 
Sleep,  lady,  sleep  ! 

Some  fellows  —  at  their  nonsense  oft  I  wonder  — 
Sing  out  with  voices  strong  and  loud  and  deep, 

Until  their  loved  ones  wish  they  'd  go  to  thunder, 
Or,  like  myself,  sing  small,  and  let  them  sleep. 
Sleep,  lady,  sleep  ! 

The  grass  is  wet ;  I  find  that  I  am  sneezing ; 

This  kind  of  thing  is  getting  rather  "  steep  "  ; 
The  thought  of  rheumatism  is  n't  pleasing, 

So,  with  your  leave,  I  '11  home  to  bed  and  sleep. 
Sleep,  lady,  sleep ! 


"NO    MORE." 

HE  Summer  Season  's  over ; 

No  more  I  haunt  the  Springs  or  Shores ; 
No  more  I  lie  in  clover, 

And  suffer  myriad  rural  bores. 


T 


I   feel  no  headache  warning 

Of  sunstroke,  'neath  the  skies  of  fire ; 
I  dance   no  more,  till  morning, 

With  mortal  maids  who  must  perspire. 

No  more   I  haunt  the  stables, 
To  learn  how  racing  matters  go  ; 

No  more   I  sleep  on   tables, 

Because  "  the  house  is  crowded  so." 

No  more  the  milk  and  honey 

Of  watering-place  cuisines  are  mine  ; 


1 82  "No  More? 

But  I,  for  much  less  money, 

Can  much  more  comfortably  dine. 

No  more  the  famous  waters 

Disgust  my  taste  and  make  me  ill ; 

No  marriageable  daughters 

Are  now  thrust  at  me,  will  or  nill. 

Sweet  blondes,  and  brunettes  haughty, 

No  more  with  dressed  up  tradesmen  flirt ; 

No  more  their  nags  (2.40) 

Dash  by,  and  cover  me  with  dirt. 

The  dread  mosquito,  singing, 

No  more  torments  me  with  his  ways ; 

Nor,  sharper  tortures  bringing, 
The  still  more  terrible  punaise. 

The  sea  its  rocks  is  scathing, 

As  heretofore  ;   but  beauty  bright 

No  more  goes  in  a-bathing, 

In  togs  that  render  her  a  fright ! 


"No  Morel'  183 

I  see  no  white  sails  dotting 

Old  ocean's  bosom,  blue  and  broad  : 

I  go  no  more  a-yachting, 

And  lose  my  dinner  —  overboard. 

Bluffed,  badgered,  bored,  and  bandied, 
No  more  am  I  :   I  'm  home  at  last ; 

And  own  up  —  to  be  candid  — 
I  'm  very  glad  the  season  's  past. 


OPENING    DAY 

(AFTER  TENNYSON.) 


T 


splendor  falls 
On  cloaks  and  shawls, 
And  showy  goods  in  every  story  ; 
The  gas-light  shakes 
Its  lurid  flakes, 

And  the  Counter-jumper's  in  his  glory! 
Blow,  merchants,  blow  !    set  the  big  stories  fly 
ing ; 

Blow,    merchants  !     answer  salesmen,  —  lying,  — 
lying,  —  lying. 

O  bah  !  O  dear  ! 
What  talk  I  hear, 

And  thinner,  weaker,  feebler  growing : 
These  fellows  are 
Too  bad  by  far, 


Opening  Day.  185 

The  horns  of  their  employers  blowing : 
Blow,  merchants,  blow !    set  the  big   stories   fly 
ing  ; 

Blow,    merchants,    answer    salesmen,  —  lying,  — 
lying,  —  lying. 

Ah,  would  they  try 
To  live  —  or  die  — 
By  manly  toil,  despairing  never  ! 
But  no,  each  soul 
Plays  woman's  role, 
And  tape  and  yardstick  rule  forever ! 
Go,  merchants,  go ;    send  these   young    spoonies 

flying  ; 

And  yon,  O  salesmen !   stop  your  lying,  —  lying, 
—  lying. 


THE   COMMON    COUNCILMAN. 

r  I  ^  WAS  an  illegant  Common  Councilman, 

-*-       His   nose   it   was    red    an'    his   eyes   was 

sunken. 
As  grocery-clerk  his  life  began, 

T^ill  he  had  to  "  resign "  for  bein'  dhrunken  ; 
'T  was   then    he    was    thick    widh    the    market 
boys, 

An'  many  an  evenin'  he  got  a  singein', 
Or  helped  to  make  confusion  an'  noise, 

At  work  on  a  blazin'  roof,  or  an  ingin'. 

He  managed  the  votes  of  his  pet  masheen, 
An'  swep'  his  ward  like  a  reg'lar  hurricane ; 

An'  whin  he  was  spacheless  widh  bog-poteen, 
He  thanked  the  Lord  he  was  no  American ! 

So  they  'lected  him,  aisy  enough  ; 

He  could  n't  be  Prisident  —  more  's  the  pity  — 


Tlie  Common  Councilman.  187 

On  account  of  the  "Native  American"  stuff; 
But  they  giv'  him  a  fat  berth  undher  the  city. 

His  hair  was  red  and  his  brogue  was  nate, 

An'    whin    he    'rranged  the    affairs  o'   the  na 
tion, 
His  vote  was  always  appropriate, 

For  he  voted  for  ivery  appropriation  : 
Of  blarney  he  had  enough  an'  to  shpare ; 

His  spache  was  wondherful  fine  an'  flowery ; 
He  was  mighty  fluent  upon  the  swear, 

An'  he  kep'  a  "  sample-room "  in  the  Bowery. 

Soon  he  came  to  belong  to  "  the  Ring," 

An'  got  mighty  rich  widh  his  jobs   an'   leases, 

Had  horses  an'  wagins  an'  iverything, 

An'  chucked  his  money  around  like  Croesis. 

Ivery  mornin'  he  rode  in  his  shay, 

And  went  to  Delmonico's  for  a  luncheon  ; 

An'    he    drowndecl    the    shamrock    St.    Patrick's 
day 

In  a  punch  that  fairly  filled  a  puncheon. 


1 88  The  Common  Councilman. 

All  the  relations  he  iver  knew, 

To   his   wife's   fourth   cousin    and    great-aunt's 

brother, 
Got  a  place  undher  the  City  too  — 

Ivery  wan  had  some  pickins  or  other ; 
An'  s'o  he  lived,  respicted  by  all, 

Who,    through    him,    could    touch    the    City's 

rhino  ; 
Whin  he  died,  'twas  an  illegant  funeral, 

An'   he   went  —  O,  bother!    it's   more  than    I 
know. 


DOUGLAS'S    SERENADE. 

AIR, — Molly  Bawn. 

POLLY  TIX,  why  leave  me  pining, 
All  lonely  waiting  here  for  you  ? 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  are  brightly  shining, 
And  pray  why  should  n't  I  shine  too  ? 
O  Polly  Tix !    O  Polly  Tix  ! 

The  Black  Republicans  are  snarling  ; 

They  take  me  for  a  thief,  you  see  ; 
They  know  I  'd  steal  a  march,  my  darling, 

Unless  defeated  I  should  be. 

O  Polly  Tix !   O  Polly  Tix ! 

My  little  nose  doth  brightly  bloom,  dear  ; 
My  little  eyes  do  brightly  shine  ; 


190  Douglass  Serenade. 

The   White    House   must   be  some   one's   home, 

dear, 

And  may  be  it  was  made  for  mine. 
O  Polly  Tix  !   O  Polly  Tix ! 

February,  1860. 


THE  CONSERVATIVE'S   LAMENT. 
(AFTER  TENNYSON.) 

I    HATE    the  dreadful  nigger,  within  the  pile 
of  wood  ; 
His  name  is  the  demagogue's  weapon,    dabbled 

with  blood  in  its  sheath  ; 
At   Harper's   Ferry  still    lingers   a  silent   horror 

of  blood, 

And    Echo  there,  whatever   is  asked  her,  an 
swers  "death." 

For  there  is  a  ghastly  grin    on  political  faces 

found  ; 
The  nigger  is  all  their  life  —  they  know  how  to 

manage  him  well  — 

Dandled  and  flattered  first,  then  crushed  on  po 
litical  ground  — 

This   is   the   rock   on    which  the    Whig  Party 
split   and  fell. 


192  The  Conservatives  Lament. 

Have   we   flung    ourselves    down  ?    If  so,   the 

greatest  of  nations  has  failed  ; 
Our  honest  men  mutter  and  madden,  our  states 
men  are  wan  with  despair  ; 
When  the  nigger  has  walked  through   the  land, 

the  working  classes  have  wailed, 
And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruined   merchants 
gleamed  on  the  air. 

I  remember   the  time  when  my  bitterest   bile 

was  stirred 
By  the  Herald's  gas,  and  the  dead-weight  Times y 

and  the   Tribunes  fright, 

When    its   white-coat    editor   said,  in  every    col 
umn,  he  heard 

The  shrill-edged  shriek   of  Kansas  divide  the 
shuddering  night. 

Villany  somewhere  ?   whose  ?  I  think  they  are 

villains  all ; 

Not   one   politician   his   honest   fame   has   main 
tained  ; 


TJic  Conservatives  Lament.  193 

And  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  White  House 

reception-hall, 

Will  soon  drop    off  from    his  term,  and  leave 
us  flaccid  and  drained. 

Why  do  we  prate   of  our  government's   power  ? 

we    have  made  it  a  curse  — 
Pickpockets,  each  hand    lusting   for   gold  that 

is  not  its  own  ; 
And  the  lust  of  gain,  or  the  senator's  cane,  are 

they  better  or  worse 

Than  the  scalping  done  by  the  savage,  in  war, 
with  a  sharpened  stone  ? 

But  these  are  the   days    of  advance,  the   works 

of  the  men  of  mind, 
When  who  but    a   fool  would   have  faith  in  a 

politician's  word  ? 
Is  it  peace   or  war  ?  .  .  .  civil    war,   as    I    think  ; 

and  that  of  a  kind 

The   viler   as   being   political  —  abuse    instead 
of  the  sword. 


194  The  Conservatives  Lament. 

Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take  the  hint 
Of  the  golden  bribe  —  why  not  ?    I  have  nei 
ther  hope  nor  trust ; 

May  make  myself  eligible,  set  my  face  as  a  flint, 
Cheat,  be  elected,  and  steal :  who  knows  ?  we 
are  ashes  and  dust. 

March,  1860. 


QUEER    WEATHER. 

r  I  ^HE  summer  is  hot  and  the  summer  is  dry, 

-*•     The  water  is  low  in  the  stagnant  pool  ; 
There 's  a  parching  earth  and  a  cloudless  sky, 

And  even  the  cucumbers  can't  keep  cool : 
Still  worse  —  while  the  summer  astonishes  all, 
I  fear  there  '11  be  very  queer  weather  this  fall. 

In  Dixie  the  thunder  is  fearfully  loud, 

The  lightning  is  common,  too,  yonder,  they  say, 

And  e'en  in  the   North  is  a  gathering  cloud 
That  may  do  us   harm   before   clearing  away  : 

It  won't  come  amiss,  then,  to  look  for  a  squall, 

And  prepare  for  some  very  queer  weather  this  fall. 

'Tis  odd  that  while  drouth  scorches  forest  and  plain, 

And  the  land  is  as  dry  as  an  empty  cup, 
Poor  Washington  's  troubled  with  too  much  reign, 


196  Q?icer   Weather. 

And   the   people  are   praying   the   Pumps  may 

dry  up  : 

For  change  in  the  programme  they  earnestly  call, 
And    I    think   they  '11   have   very    queer   weather 

this  fall 

There 's    a    sprout    in    that    city  —  a    flourishing 
weed  — 

That  grows  upon  ruins  and  blooms  on  despair ; 
It  sucks  up  the  richness  that  other  plants  need, 

And   takes  to  itself  all  the    sunshine  and  air ; 
At  present  't  is  lusty  and  thrifty  and  tall, 
But  I  think  't  will  have  very  queer  weather  this  fall. 

Well,  let  us  hope   on,  though   the    heavens  may 
frown  ; 

Such  weather  can  hardly  last  always,  you  know ; 
The  day  must  come,  even  to  Washington  town, 

When  the  ruin-born  blossoms  no  longer  can  blow'; 
And  sunshine  shall  follow,  in  cottage  and  hall, 
The  very  queer  weather  that 's  coming  this  fall ! 


FACILIS    DECENSUS    AVENUE. 


["We  see  that  one  of  our  fashionable  tailors  has  broken  ground  in  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  converted  one  of  the  fine  mansions  therein  into  a  mas*azine  of  gar 
ments.  In  a  short  time  we  may  expect  to  see  most  of  the  magnificent  private 
residences  in  this  avenue  converted  into  retail  stores  and  shops."  —  Daily 
Newspaper.] 


A   CCORDING  to  popular  talk, 
•**•  The  palatial  street  of  New  York 
Is  falling  from  grace 
At  a  terrible  pace. 
I  hear,  when  I  promenade  there, 
Strange  voices  of  grief  in  the  air  ; 
And  I  fancy  I  see 
The  sad  sisters  three, 
With  their  black  trailing  dresses 
And  dishevelled  tresses, 

Go,  solemn  and  slow, 
To  and  fro, 
In  their  woe, 


198  Facilis  Deccnsus  Avenue. 

Sighing, 

And  crying 
"  Eheu  !  Eheu  !  Eheu  ! 
There  's  a  Tailor  in  Fifth  Avenue  ! " 

ii. 

O,  sorry  and  sad  was  the  day 
When  this  Tailor  came  up  from  Broadway, 
With  his  stitches, 
And  breeches, 
His  shears  and  his  goose, 
And  his  fashions  profuse, 
To  the  house  that  has  been, 
In  years  I  have  seen, 
Most  aristocratic 
From  basement  to  attic  ! 
But  gone  are  the  flush  and  the  fair, 
And  those  voices  still  float  in  the  air, 
Sighing, 
And  crying 
"  Eheu  !    Eheu  !    Eheu  ! 
There  's  a  Tailor  in  Fifth  Avenue." 


Fad  Us  Dcccnsus  Avenue.  199 

in. 

Where  sweet  Crinolina  once  slept, 
The  sempstresses,  may  be,  are  kept  ; 
And,  perhaps,  in  her  dressing-room,  where 
Her  maid  combed  that  glistening  hair, 
Some  cross-legged  fellow, 
Round-shouldered  and  yellow, 
May  sit,  with  his  needle  and  thread  ; 
For  the  glory  that  reigned  there  has  fled  ! 
How  oft  to  that  door  she  ascended 
When  the  ball  or  the  party  was  ended, 
Flushed,  beautiful,  bright, 
A  queen  of  delight, 
An  angel  quite  worthy  of  heaven  ! 
To  that  door  now  a  tailor's  cart 's  driven. 
No  wonder  that  voice  cries  —  "  Eheu  ! 
There  's  a  Tailor  in  Fifth  Avenue  ! " 

IV. 

Then  where  shall  the  flush  and  the  fair 
Find  refuge  ?    Ah,  Echo  says  "  Where  ?  " 
There  are  dentists  in  Madison  Square  ; 


2OO  Facilis  Decensus  Avenue. 

The  boarding-house,  too,  appears  there ; 
And  I  Ve  heard, 
In  a  word, 

That  some  kind  of  factory,  or  mill, 
Is  soon  to  disturb  Murray  Hill  ! 
Now,  if  fashion  must  be 
(And  it  seems  so  to  me) 
Crowded  upward,  each  year, 
I  very  much  fear 
They'll  be  shoved — and   the   thought    makes 

me  shiver  — 

Off  the  island  and  into  the  river ; 
Sighing, 
And  crying 
"Eheu!  Eheu!  Eheu! 
There's  a  Tailor  in  Fifth  Avenue." 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  HOME  GUARD. 

"  I  only  ask  for  Peace  ;  my  god  is  Ease."  —  ALDRICH. 

"  T     ET  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite," 

-• — '  I  have  no  taste  for  war  ; 
My  joy  is  not  in  fire  and  fight, 
In  cannon's  roar  and  bullet's  flight, 
And  nasty  pools  of  gore. 

0  no,  I  hold  't  is  very  wrong 
My  fellow-man  to  slay  ; 

But  when  I  see  the  martial  throng 
Go  clattering  by,  ten  thousand  strong, 
I  'm  carried  quite  away. 

1  love  the  drums'  and  trumpets'  crash, 
The  uniforms  and  things  : 

The  sunlit  sabre's  glittering  flash 


2O2  TJic  Song  of  tJic  Home  Guard. 

(When  all  unused  to  human  hash  !) 
To  me  a  pleasure  brings. 

So  much  I  love  the  pomp  and  show 

That  warlike  men  display, 
I  once  had  half  a  mind  to  go 
Where  swords  must  strike  and  blood  must  flow, 

And  some  must  run  away. 

But  well  I  knew  their  lot  is  hard 

Who  through  the  South  do  roam  ; 
And  rather  than  be  maimed  or  scarred 
I  Ve  joined  the  glorious,  gallant  Guard, 
Who  vow  to  stay  at  Home. 

So  down  Broadway  I  proudly  ride, 
Through  heat  and  dust  and  noise  ; 

My  dress-sword  jingles  at  my  side, 

And  I  am  puffed  by  martial  pride, 
And  chaffed  by  vulgar  boys. 

Let  others  fight,  let  others  fall, 
Let  others  wear  the  bays  ; 


The  Song  of  tJic  Home  Guard.  203 

to 

But  at  the  military  ball 
Let  me  adorn  the  festive  hall, 
Where  gimp  and  buttons  blaze. 

Then  fill  your  glasses  full  and  free, 
And  drink  the  health  that's  right, — 

To  him  that  joins  my  company 

And  only  wants,  like  me,  to  be 
A   Broadway  carpet-knight. 

'T  is  ours  to  keep  well  fed  and  warm  ; 

We  scorn  all  poor  supplies  ; 
We  fear  no  bloody  battle's  storm, 
We  wear  a  nice  new  uniform 

And  tend  our  shops  likewise. 

So  now,  brave  boys,  I  move  that  when 

The  war  has  drained  our  land 
Of  good  and  valiant  fighting  men, 
Should  we  be  called,  I  move  that  then 
We  instantly  disband. 


A   VOICE    FROM    ON    DECK. 

[JACK    TAR    SPEAKS.] 

OOD  Mister  Welles,  my  mind  is  set, 

And  I  must  say  my  say  or  die : 
I  never  minded  getting  wet  ; 
Why  should  you  keep  me  dry  ? 

On  sprees  I  never  used  to  go  ; 

I  took  my  ration  —  quantum  suff — 
But  then  I  am  a  Salt,  you  know, 

And  salt  is  thirsty  stuff. 

When  nausea  would  not  let  me  sup, — 
When  winds  did  blow  and  skies  did  frown, 

Grog  often  kept  my  spirits  up, 
And  kept  my  victuals  down. 

Each  Salt  that  roves  the  briny  wave 
Will  tell  you  I  have  truly  sung ; 


A    Voice  from  on  Deck.  205 

And  what  you  at  the  spigot  save 
Will  leak  out  at  the  bung. 

Since  you  Ve  pronounced  the  fatal  word, 
Our  fun  goes  never  quite  so  far : 

And  pray,  what  could  be  more  absurd  — 
A  sober  jolly  Tar  ? 

I  used  to  sing  a  merry  stave, 

However  loud  the  tempest  roared ; 

But  now  my  energies  I  save,  — 
There  's  not  a  stave  on  board. 

Without  my  grog  I  feel  afraid 

To  venture  where  I  Ve  little  room  ; 

Yet  'tis  a  portion  of  my  trade 
To  go  upon  a  boom. 

Now,  Mister  Welles,  I  '11  say  good  by, 
With  hopes  that,  in  a  little  while, 

We  water-clogs  may  not  be  dry,  — 
We  jolly  Tars  may  smile  ! 


THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  POSTAGE-STAMP. 

T  'M  a  very  dirty  little  Stamp  ; 
-*•  My  back  is  gummed,  my  face  is  dimly  blurred  ; 
And  yet  I  am,  in  commerce,  cot,  and  camp, 

Familiar  as  the  well-known  household  word. 
Yet  O,  to  think  that  I  should  ever  be 
Converted  into  legal  currency! 

Now  on  an  envelope  I  'm  not  so  bad, 

And   I   take   letters  through   both    cheap  and 
neat ; 

Sticking  to  one  thing  was  a  way  I  had, 
But  now  I  stick  to  everything  I  meet : 

And  O,  to  think  that  I  could  ever  be 

Passed  in  the  place  of  metal  currency! 

To  do  my  duty  I  did  ne'er  refuse  ; 

But  woe  is  me !   for  I  have  fallen  low  ; 


The  Plaint  of  tlie  Postage-Stamp.         207 

I  'm  passed  for  vulgar  drinks  and  oyster-stews, 

And  dirty  shaves,  —  't  is  that  that  sticks  me  so! 
Alas  !  alas !   that  I  should  ever  be 
A  victim  to  the  dearth  of  currency  ! 

Thumbing  and  gumming  have  quite  worn  me  out ; 

I  'm  drab  and  dingy  now,  instead  of  red  ; 
My  back  is  weak,  and  soon,  without  a  doubt, 

If  I  am  passed  much  more  I  '11  lose  my  head. 
O  sorry  day !  when  I  did   chance  to  be 
Put  to  the  use  of  baser  currency ! 
1862. 


THE    WAR-POET'S    LAMENT. 


w 


HEN  lovers  and   sweethearts   and    house 
holds  were  sundered, 
And    lurid  clouds  darkened  the    bright  south 
ern  sky, 

When  cannon  and   mortar  and   musketry  thun 
dered, 

And  tyrants  in  foreign  lands  trembled  and  won 
dered, 
How  happy  and  busy  a  poet  was  I ! 


I  sought  no  laborious  plots  and  devices ; 

Battle-rhymes  almost  unconsciously  come  ; 
You    can    chop    'em    off    neatly,    to    order,     in 

slices, 
Charging — and  getting  —  most  fabulous  prices, 

If  lavish  of  "death-dealing  cannon"  and  "drum." 


TJie   War-Poet's  Lament.  209 

O,  how  I  revelled  in  visions  of  battle :  — 

"  Blood,"     and    "  destruction,"    and    "  victory's 

shout," 

"  Piled  heaps  of  slain,"  and  the   "  horrid  death- 
rattle  "  !  .  .  . 

Now  I  must  poetize  small-talk  and  tattle  ; 
Peace  has  come   in,  and   my  trade  has   gone 
out! 

What  shall    I   sing,   whose  sole   stock   has   been 
Glory  ? 

How  shall  I  turn  from  the  worship  of  Mars  ? 
How  leave  a  field  so  productive  and  gory  ? 
Changing  to  tranquil  and  pastoral  story  ? 

How  shall  I  pay  for  my  wine  and  cigars  ? 


Such  a  denouement  I  hardly  expected, 

Till  the  sad  morn  when  I  rose  from  my  bed, 
Saw  the  white  temple  that  Peace  had  erected, 
Found  my  last  war-song  politely  rejected, 
Myself  in  despair,  and  with  never  a  red  ! 


2io  The   War-Poet's  Lament. 

Ah,  it  is  mournful  !  our  soldiers  and  sailors 
Furnish  no  longer  a  theme  for  my  pen  : 
What  foes  we  have  left  we  confide  to  our  jailers, 
And  —  gad !    I  '11  write   rhymes   for   the  popular 

tailors, 

And  sing  of  brave  garments  instead  of  brave 
men ! 


SHODDY. 

times  of  sorrow  and  need  ; 
-*"     Times  to  make  hearts  of  adamant  bleed ; 
Times  that  seem  to  have  been  decreed 

To  chasten  our  wayward  nation  : 
Fathers  and  brothers  thinning  away, 
Bread  growing  scarcer  every  day, 
Famine  to  pinch  and  sword  to  slay  — 
'T  is  a  woful  situation  ! 

But,  even  as  Nero,  in  days  of  old, 
Unmoved,  heard  Roman  fire-bells  tolled, 
And  saw  the  machines  that  rattled  and  rolled 

To  the  scene  of  the  great  disaster, 
The  while  he  rosined  his  fiddle-bow, 
And  played  some  classic  "  Rob  Ridley,  O  ! " 
So  we  make  merry,   while  all  things  go 

To  the  dickens,  faster,  and  faster  ! 


2 1 2  Shoddy. 

Parties,  sociables,  visits  and  calls, 

Operas,  hops,  and  Russian  balls, 

'Mid  broken  pillars  and  tottering  walls, 

Enough  to  bewilder  a  body  ; 
Silver  and  gold,  and  gems  of  the  mine, 
Satin  to  rustle  and  silk    to    shine, 
Feathers  and  fuss  and  frippery  fine  — 

The  paraphernalia  of  Shoddy. 

Carriages  flash  through  the  crowded  street, 
Flunkeys  in  livery  stiff  on   each  seat, 
Buttoned  and  caped  from  head  to  feet  — 

Most  solemn,  majestical  flunkeys  ; 
And  "  tigers,"  to  let  down  the  steps  with  a  bow  — 
Learned,  only  tigers    and   Heaven  know  how  ! 
Dressed  up  in  a  fashion  I  must  allow 

Like  that  of  the  organ  monkeys. 

The  ladies,  who  walk  when  the  weather  is  fair, 
Show  marvellous  tastes,  with  a  marvellous  air. 
Nothing  can  be  too  splendid  to  wear  ; 
Too  gaudy,  too  fine,  or  too  funny  ; 


Shoddy.  213 

For  credit  is  good,  if  prices  are  high, 
And  a  government  nod,  or  wink  of  the  eye, 
Can  pile  up  "  greenbacks "  clear  to  the  sky,  — 
"  Greenbacks  "  being  Shoddy  for  money. 

So  yellows,  and  blues,  and  scarlets,  gay 
Go  sweeping  the  pavements  every  day, 
Making  a  rainbow  of  poor  Broadway, 

With  a  glare  that  is  really  stunning  ; 
And  even  the  churches  where  fashion  goes 
Are  a  mass  of  follies  and  furbelows, 
Flirtation  and   foolery  under  the  rose, 

Past  even  the  serpent's  cunning. 

While  Shoddy  over  its  turtle  gloats, 

Our  soldiers  shiver  in  rotten  coats, 

And  our  tars  go  down  in  their  leaky  boats, 

The  victims  of  contract  building  ; 
And  poverty  starves  in  its   wretched   slums, 
Or  freezes  to  death  when  the  north  wind  comes, 
While  Shoddy  is  picking  the  sweetest  plums 

From  its  bed  of  gingerbread  gilding. 


214  Shoddy. 

But  what  cares  Shoddy  for  all  these  things  ? 
Shoddy,  the  richest  of  paper  kings : 
Shoddy,  who  dances,  fiddles,  and  sings 

On  the  crater  of  wild  inflation  ? 
What  does  he  care  ?    Not  a  sou-markee ! 
He  fattens  and  battens  in  luxury, 
As  if  his  reign  were  a  thing  to  be 

Of  eternal  perpetuation. 

But  Damocles'  sword  hangs  overhead  : 

Justice  may  sleep,  but  she  is  not  dead ; 

"  Vengeance  is  mine ! "    the  Lord  hath  said  ; 

And  soon,  at  the  end  of  the  story, 
Fruitiest  wine  shall  be  bitterest  gall ; 
Silk  and  satin  make  shroud  and  pall ; 
Truth  shall  rise  and  Shoddy  shall  fall, — 

To  the  nation's  lasting  glory  ! 

1864. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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